


Beautiful Release

by chooken



Category: Westlife
Genre: Anger, Angst, Blood, Cutting, Drinking, Drinking to Cope, Eating Disorders, Exhaustion, Friendship, Hallucinations, Isolation, Loneliness, M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Misery, Pain, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Stream of Consciousness, Suicidal Thoughts, Unrequited Love, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2891258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chooken/pseuds/chooken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all too much, and Mark begins to lose himself.</p><p>WARNING: This is a seriously fucked up story.  If you're looking for Hurt/Comfort with a happy ending, you're not going to find it here.  This is dark, disturbed, and was written at a particularly low point in my life.  I'm sorry Mark had to take the brunt of it, but I still really like this story and what it represents.  If you are going to be disgusted, offended, feel like you're not up to it, or can't take this kind of subject matter, please don't read it and then send me complaints.  You've been warned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

This is _so_ not fair, Mark thinks as he kicks a nearby dustbin as hard as he possibly can. Well, it’s not so much nearby as he’s had to take a pretty powerful run at it, but then it was still in the alley, so it still counts as nearby. And now it’s sort of half in the alley, bits of paper and empty coke cans and a couple of chunks of half eaten food in their styrofoam wrappers falling out into the street. It doesn’t make him feel much better, he didn’t think it would. Nothing could make him feel much better at this point.

Because this is _so_ not fair!

Not fair. Totally not fair, he thinks as he leans back against the wall, crossing his arms and thanking god it’s a secluded alley. He can just imagine the headlines. _Mark Westlife Lashing Out At Garbage Bin._ Well, no, it probably wouldn’t say that. They’d probably come up with something much more scathingly witty. But he doesn’t really give a shit about headlines right now. At least no more than he normally does. What he cares about is Kian, sitting in there, looking like a fucking sex GOD, and... It’s so not fair!

Because he can’t have him, can he? No. No, of course not. He can have Nicky, who’s been trailing after him like a lost puppy for quite possibly months now. Fucking Nicky, who he doesn’t even fucking want! Not that Nicky’s not attractive and nice and stuff, but... Kian. Kian, who he’s known his whole fucking life, and who, of course, is not fucking interested. No. Of course he’s not fucking interested. Kian can sleep with anyone on the planet, can’t he? So why would he even spare a thought for Mark? Mark, the quiet, sensitive one who only cares about everyone else’s feelings. The one who’s supportive and kind and considerate and standing in the alleyway behind the BMG offices, kicking over garbage bins.

“Mark?”

He hadn’t even heard the fire escape open, but it’s open now, and look, there’s the problem. He’s standing right there, staring at him, a worried frown on his face, his fingers tapping against the doorframe.

“Are you okay?”

He wants to tell Kian to go fuck himself. But that’s not really honest, because he wants Kian to fuck _him_. But he can’t say either of those things. Not in a million fucking years because, again, he’s the considerate, gentle one that couldn’t hate rain, and it’s a horrible irony that telling Kian to get fucked would probably get a better response than asking Kian for what he really wants.

So isn’t life just fucking wonderful. Fucking lovely really. He’s never been happier in his life.

Ha. Bullshit.

“Mark?”

He shrugs, not sure what else to do. Kian steps out and props the door open with another bin that was in the corner. Oh yeah, that door doesn’t open from the outside. Oops. That could have been a disaster. Just another notch in the bedpost of an already shite day.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Kian smirks, and Mark isn’t sure whether he should be offended or swooning. In the end he shoves the gearstick straight into neutral and shuts his eyes, crossing his arms tighter until he can grip his shoulders. Maybe if he ignores the stupid blonde pixie he’ll just go away. And then he can watch his arse disappear around the corner...

Old habits really do die hard, don’t they?

“Nothing? You kicked over the bin.”

“It was like that before I came out here.”

“I heard you do it.”

Smug bastard. Smug, self-satisfied bastard. Smug, self-satisfied, sexy bastard. Sexy bastard. He still hasn’t got his eyes open, but he just knows Kian will be looking sexy anyway. He always does. It’s like... the law of nature or something.

“So, what’s wrong? And don’t say nothing.”

“Fuck all.” Mark replies, turning away but nearly tripping over the bin. Oh, right. Open eyes, and then move. But he can’t be expected to remember that when Kian’s standing so close he can _smell_ him. “Please just... go away Kian.”

“I...” He looks up from under his lashes, and Kian’s looking just a bit hurt. But as he watches, the hurt is concealed and Kian smiles. “Okay but... we’re in a meeting and we need to talk about stuff so I thought...”

“Just do it without me.” Mark sighs. “I really can’t right now.”

“Mark...” Kian leans against the wall next to him, and Mark turns in the other direction, pointedly not looking at Kian. Cos if he’s gonna look at Kian, then he’s just going to feel worse, and he can’t deal with that right now. “Mark.” Kian walks around and takes hold of his shoulder so he can’t turn away again. Kian’s large, warm, strong hand squeezing his shoulder. “Look... just talk to me, alright? I don’t care what we talk about. Just talk to me.” Mark shakes his head. He doesn’t want to talk to Kian. Not about anything. He doesn’t want to hear that amazingly sexy voice. Not at all. Not even considering the fact that he’s often started talking just to hear Kian talk back. But that’s different. That was when he liked Kian.

“Mate, come on.” Kian lets go of his shoulder and smiles encouragingly. “Look, what do you think about the new single?”

“It’s shite.” Mark frowns as he realises he’s answered without thinking about it. “I... I think we should’ve done the other one. The one you and Shay wrote. I like that one.”

“Yeah me too.” Kian smiles. “Now come back inside and we’ll argue for it. You can throw a tantrum later. Go cry into Nix’s shoulder. He’ll like that.”

Mark explodes, the hatred and frustration boiling over. “You think I fucking want him? Fucking hell! Can’t you just... I’m not throwing a tantrum! You should know that by now. This...” Mark kicks out at the bin, as hard as he can, relishing the clatter of metal pounding out of the alleyway and into the road. “...is not a fucking tantrum, Kian!”

“Okay.” Kian says, holding up his hands, his face twisted into an indulgent, anxious smile. “Okay, Mark... I didn’t mean...”

“You never fucking mean, do you?” He yells, aiming another hearty kick at the now dented metal. “Well, why don’t you shove it up your arse? I’m going back to the hotel.”

“Mark, wait! I don’t...”

But Mark ignores him. He doesn’t want to see the look of anxious, genuine confusion on Kian’s beautiful face. Doesn’t want to see him at all, because then he’ll be reminded of how much he loves him, and he doesn’t want that at the moment. He wants to hate Kian. He wants to beat the ever living shit out of him... and then kiss him senseless. He wants everything and nothing and... fuck. He doesn’t know what he wants anymore. He doesn’t know if he wants to run, but at the same time he has to. Has to run away from Kian and out into the street, hailing a taxi and thanking god that he’s got the least recognisable face out of all of them.

He has to stumble out of the taxi and dash past the swarm of fans outside the hotel, indignant at being ignored. Has to climb into the lift and pound the button so many times he suspects he’s broken it, staggering out at their floor and slamming into the room, his fingers shaking around the key card. Has to go straight for the minibar, and empty it of all the alcohol he can.

He wants to start on the scotch, though. He wants it to all go away.

He wants Kian to go away. He wants Nicky to go away. He wants the whole fucking world to go away and this seems the best way there is, short of killing himself. He doesn’t want to kill himself, definitely not. That’s painful, and messy. And if he killed himself, he’d just be gone wouldn’t he? Everything would just be gone. And as much as he wants Kian to go away, he can’t have that; not ever. Because he _needs_ Kian, absolutely, like a fucking _drug_. He needs blue eyes and pouty lips, and friendship, and kindness, and smiles, and jokes and fucking _all_ of it.

He needs to not need it.

A long swallow of scotch straight from the bottle, and he captures the spill that leaks out from the corner of trembling lips, sucking it off his fingers, not wanting to miss a drop. Can’t miss a drop, because this is his only salvation. This is it, aside from suicide or Kian’s undying affections. Both could break the spell, but he knows he’s not going to get either, because he’s too much of a fucking wimp to try for them, and an attempt at either would surely bring about his downfall. So this is it for him. A bottle of scotch. A quarter empty bottle of scotch on his hotel floor.

He pours the next bit into a glass, although he’s not sure why. Maybe to erase the feeling of savagery intrinsically entwined in all of this. Maybe to give himself some kind of control over _something_ in this equation. But probably just so he can throw the glass at the wall after he downs it all in one mouthful.

The sound of the exploding glass should be something of a release, he suspects, but it hasn’t really worked, and now he’s busted one of the hotel’s glasses. Well, he has plenty of money. He can pay for it. What’s the point of having money when you can’t have what you really want? Money doesn’t buy happiness, as cliché as that sounds. Nothing does. Except maybe Kian. A bottle of scotch and a destroyed glass definitely doesn’t, but maybe two destroyed glasses and a vodka will. No, nothing. Well, what if he stomps on the glass? What if he uses the scotch bottle to knock over a lamp, the glass feeling uselessly light in his hands? What if he stomps on the lamp and lobs the bottle at the mirror, as hard as his tired muscles can manage? What if the bottle shatters as it hits the floor? Who really fucking cares in the slightest? Not him.

He stops, panting, in front of the broken mirror, looking at his broken reflection. A shattered figure stares back, tiny shards of cracked glass disarranging his red, wet eyes and flushed cheeks, trembling lips and dishevelled hair. He tastes the salt on his lips and looks intently at the answering likeness, which is mocking him and laughing, howling its tears at his expense. He wonders if maybe the fumes from two thirds of a bottle of scotch are just affecting him, but decides against it. He may not have seen this before, but he’s felt it. For the last five fucking years he’s felt it. Blinking, he looks down at the shattered glass at his feet, millions of tiny caricatures staring up at him, laughing and screaming at his tears. He bends and picks one of them up, looking at the distorted image within. A dark light looks back and he can’t help the tortured sob that escapes his lips, not even able to hear it himself. He needs it to hurt. He needs the horrible mocking _thing_ to hurt as much as he’s hurting.

He takes it to the mattress, not delighting in the ripping sound as he carves through synthetic flesh, tearing out its innards and watching the springs bounce teasingly through the appliquéd bundles. The sheets tear and pull away, tangling around the makeshift knife and impeding its progress. He tries to shake it free, but it snags, and he yanks hard, swearing as it submits and pulls back to scratch at his forearm, leaving a long scarlet welt. Tinged with blood, it oozes through broken pores and runs in miniscule rivulets towards his elbow as he lifts it up to inspect the damage, the chunk of glass still held in his other hand. He stares at it for a moment and then turns his gaze to the reflective shard, watching in fascination as a tiny droplet of blood shrieks down its edge and tumbles away, falling in a red tarn on the carpet. It hurts now, but he’s surprised at how good it feels. It feels real. It feels like he’s made an impact. Not like the glass, or the lamp, or the mirror, or the mattress. He’s done something. He’s _feeling_ something.

Carefully, but not hesitantly, he lifts the long splinter to his hand, watching diligently as he pulls it along his palm. It stings, he knows it does, but that’s the best part. The part driving him to not pull away, to not falter and not give in to reflex. A streak of scarlet, more blood this time, pooling along the wound and then flooding up into the cup of his palm when it can no longer fit in the deep scratch. He captures the blood for awhile, and then tilts his hand forward, watching in fascination as gentle red rivers make their steady way along to his index finger, but don’t manage to breach the mound before. Instead, they trickle down between his first and middle finger, some dripping to the carpet, some adhering to the back of his hand and taking a journey down towards his wrist, the voyage diverted slightly by dark, coarse hair. He blows along the now drained wound, smiling at the pain. This is good. This is real.

“Mark?”

He spins around guiltily at the calling of his name and fixes his gaze on the door, almost able to see Kian behind it. Kian, standing there, probably with one hand in his jean pocket, probably running the other hand through his hair after he stops knocking. Mark looks down at the blood and sucks it away, the copper tang making his tastebuds reel magnificently. He takes a final lick, inspecting his hand for blood. Nothing. Well, nothing conspicuous anyway, if you don’t count the long scratch adorning his palm. It’s amazing how easily it’s all washed away. Nothing left; nothing obvious. So easy, and so _good_.

“Mark? Are you in there?”

“Just a second!”

He looks around at the chaotic state of his room, debris everywhere. There’s no covering that. He heads to the door, putting on the chain so Kian can’t see inside.

“Um... hey.” He pretends to yawn, tries to make himself look tired. He feels it.

“Hey.” Kian replies, craning his head so he can see through the gap. “I wanted...” He pauses and Mark wonders why he’s looking at him so strangely. “Are you crying?”

“No.” Mark shakes his head. “No, I was just sleeping so I’m a bit... you know.” He smiles weakly, running his fingers through his hair. “What do you want?”

Kian smiles, but he looks worried, and Mark can’t stop his heart from reacting. Kian looks so beautiful, so gorgeous like that. Cute and anxious, blue eyes big and innocent... Naïve. So naïve. He really has no idea, does he? How Mark feels? What he was just doing? No idea at all. Kian must not know him very well then, must he? It’s so easy to hide. So easy to hide from Kian. From everyone.

“I... wanted to see how you were.” Kian replies. “Um... you just left and I wanted to know if you were alright with...”

“Oh, I’m fine.” Mark interrupts, nodding. His voice sounds too happy for his own good, but he can’t help it. It’s either that or cry. He smiles widely. “Sorry about before. Haven’t had much sleep. You know how it is.”

Kian looks taken aback for a moment, and Mark wonders whether maybe Kian’s caught him. Maybe Kian knows him better than he thought. But then he doesn’t, does he? Because if Kian could tell that, then he could tell how Mark feels, and he doesn’t. Mark knows he doesn’t.

“Um... yeah.” Kian’s eyebrows knit together, but then his expression goes back to normal and he smiles. “So we’re all done, and we wanted to know if you were coming down to the bar.”

“Oh um...” Mark looks at his watch, not because he wants the time, but to stall. He wants to stall. The agony of hours with Kian is not a good prospect, no matter how close they’re all supposed to be. He loves Kian, but he can’t stand him. Yet, the feeling of Kian stood not inches away, the two of them together, alone, makes him want this moment for an eternity. He squeezes his own fist, feeling the wound rub against itself. It feels... total. Blanks everything out, the pain erasing the pain inside. He looks back up at Kian and nods. “Yeah. I’ll just have a shower first. Meet you down there?”

“Yeah, okay.” Kian nods and grins. “See ya soon.”

“See ya.” Mark nods and shuts the door, leaning back against it, thanking god that he’s always had the enviable ability of being able to hold his drink. He’s plastered of course, a third of a bottle of scotch and a glass of vodka in about ten minutes will do that to a person, but he’s remarkably coherent and he smiles, pushing away from the door and heading for the bathroom. Quickly he tugs his clothes off, wincing as he opens his palm and the long wound there sticks to itself. It hurts now. Not a good pain, but a really _hurting_ pain, and he kind of wishes he hadn’t done it. But then he’s glad he did. He felt so alive for a second there. So real. It doesn’t matter that it hurts now, only that it hurt _then_ , when he was hurting. For a moment, everything was fine. There was no Kian, no problems. Just him, and the pain, and that was all.

The hot water stings badly and he flinches away, holding his hand out of the water while he soaps himself with the other. Slightly awkward, yes; but okay. He decides he should probably wash that hand, to stop it getting infected, and he turns down the heat, carefully moving it under the water. It burns and throbs and he gasps softly at the pain, even more as he adds soap and the suds go into the cut, small clumps of congealed blood washing from the hollow of his hand and marring the spotless tiles.

It hurts, Christ it hurts.

“Fuck.” He murmurs as he pulls the cut away, wondering how he’s going to hide that from the lads. But he’s really too inebriated to think about that fully, so he pulls his hand from the water and turns it off, drying himself off with a fluffy towel as he steps from the booth.

Ten minutes later he’s dressed and heading downstairs in the lift. Eleven minutes and Nicky’s already pulled him into a hug, and Mark is only just sober enough to notice the not quite inconspicuous grope he receives.

“Hiya Marky. Was gonna come up and see how you were, but Kino got there first. You alright mate?”

“Yeah.” He nods, his hand stuffed deep in his pockets to hide the ugly (beautiful) wound. “I’m okay. Did I miss much?”

“No. We’re releasing that shite cover.” Nicky screws up his face in disgust and Mark has to force a laugh, for Nicky’s benefit. It is funny, sort of, he does know that, but he feels too numb at this point to be amused.

“Oh no.” He replies, manoeuvring himself between Kian and Nicky, so that his arm brushes Kian’s as they walk. “Two months promoting _that?_ Hell.”

“Oh, I know.” Kian chips in. Mark can barely stop himself from blushing as he hears Kian’s voice, that sweet, soft brogue that is guaranteed to make him go weak without fail. He turns to look at Kian, who smiles, making his knees buckle for the second time in as many seconds. “It’s terrible. We should have released the other one, but Marky-boy here wouldn’t come fight for it.”

“Look, I said I was sorry!” Mark protests, kicking at the pavement. Kian looks at him for a moment.

“I didn’t mean that.” He smiles sweetly, and while the last smile made Mark go weak, this one has his defences up. It’s the kind of smile that says ‘Poor, sweet, Mark. It’s okay, we don’t wanna offend you, you poor dear.’ It makes him feel like he’s about two years old. And who does Kian fucking think he is? “I was just kidding, Mark.” He adds. “I didn’t mean anything.”

Mark nods, smiles, and feels like punching someone’s head in. Kian’s. No, Nicky, who’s standing there with a look of utter adoration on his face. He doesn’t want to punch Kian. He doesn’t want to spoil that beauty. Or maybe he does, so that nobody else will want Kian, and then Mark can have him. Maybe he wants to leave Nicky’s face intact so that he can find someone else and leave him the fuck alone.

“I know. Sorry.”

“Oh, just ignore him.” Nicky’s smile is beyond sweet. “He’s just being a moody bastard like always. Aren’t ya, Ki?”

“Fuck off.” Kian murmurs menacingly before brightening again. “Where we going first, anyway?”

“O’Malley’s?” Nicky suggests. “Friday night happy hour”

Mark smirks. He’s already had nearly enough, the pavement swinging and sloping at odd angles beneath him as he tries to walk. But right now, with Kian walking so close he can feel his heat, he thinks he could maybe go another.

“What are Shane and Bry doing tonight, anyways?” He asks finally. Anything to break the silence.

“Heard Mac suggest an early bedtime, then they disappeared.” Nicky smirks. “Three guesses what they’re doing right now.”

“Each other?” Kian answers.

“Got it in one.” Nicky laughs. “Horny gits. Though, it must be nice, y’know. Having someone steady like that.” Mark purposefully avoids responding to the meaningful look Nicky gives him. He won’t be Nicky’s steady anything. Sorry, Nicky. Not gonna happen. He settles for a noncommittal shrug and scratches his hair, wincing as it catches his wound. Shit. He’s forgotten all about that. He shoves both his hands in his pockets, trying to look inconspicuous.

“So um...” Mark speaks, just because he hasn’t in a while, and it might start to look suspicious. Then he remembers that he should have thought of something to say before opening his mouth. “Um... I... Anyone watch Friends last night?”

Ooh, that was plausible, too. And sure enough, it distracts the other two long enough that they manage not to talk about sex, relationships, and why Mark was a total fuck-up today. Until they reach the bar at least, and Kian disappears to find someone that’s remotely interested in the idea of being felt up. Leaving Mark sitting in a booth alone. With Nicky.

“So.” Nicky’s voice turns into that irritatingly cutesy drawl he always uses when he thinks he’s being seductive. It makes Mark shiver, and not with arousal. “How’s life anyway, Marky?”

“Alright.” Mark replies defensively, obstinately looking the other way when Nicky’s finger traces up his arm. But this puts Kian directly in his line of vision, arm around some hot guy that just manages to be shorter than him. Kian’s always gone for shorter guys, even though that’s definitely a social minority. And yet another reason that Mark is totally unsuited to the role of ‘boyfriend’.

“That’s good.” Nicky purrs. It’s nice to know you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Yeah, okay Nix.” Mark stands immediately, feeling like he’s about ready to vomit all over Nicky’s Dolce & Gabbana, right-this-second, aren’t-I-just-so-fucking-gorgeous shirt. “I’m going to the loo.”

“Want me to come?”

“No.” Mark states simply, and hopefully inarguably, the bile rising in his throat making him gag as he turns away, and he wonders if this is how he makes Kian feel. If this is how Kian would feel if he ever knew. Sick. Just... sick. Sickened. Disgusted and...

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and then clenches it into a fist when he realises the rest of the pub can probably see his gash. Wide open and dark, clotted and tender. He catches Kian out of the corner of his eye, but the view is quickly gone as the toilet door shuts behind him and he crashes into a stall, slamming the door and slumping down onto the lid, glaring angrily at the door. At himself.

Why is everything so fucking difficult?

“Mark?”

“Fuck _off_ Nicky!”

“...Okay.” Nicky sounds hurt. Whoopdy-do for him. He’s not the one sitting on a toilet in a pub, only just not crying at the sheer _tragedy_ of it all. Mark refuses to cry. He will not cry like some little two year old brat who’s had her favourite barbie turned into a voodoo doll by her stupid twat of a brother. He’s a grown man for fuck’s sakes, and grown men never cry. They never fucking do. At all. But then how come he was crying only an hour earlier, and kicking up a hotel room? And how come he cried last week, when Kian picked up some bloke who really should’ve come with a warning reading ‘loud in bed’.

 _Ooh, yes, oh baby, yeah_. _Harder harder harder, fuck me._ Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyoufuckyou.

And fucking hell, he’s crying.

Again.

 

*

 

He stumbles back into his room, the tears long gone and replaced by a hell of a lot of pain. He almost notices that it's been cleaned, and wonders idly if he has to pay someone for that. The broken mirror's gone. He’s stubbed his toe somewhere along the way and it hurts like a bitch, to the point where he suspects it just might be broken. And Kian had the nerve to fucking laugh. And Nicky had the nerve to act all caring, asking if he was okay. He’s not. He’s really not. He’s drunk to the point where he just can’t bother being coherent anymore, and he’s hurting.

“You need a hand?”

“Yeah.” He mumbles, the rush of elation that it’s Kian standing in his doorway and not Nicky making him feel more pathetic than ever. But it’s true, he does need a hand. Cos he’s sitting in the middle of his floor trying desperately to get his shoe off, but it looks like the laces might have been welded together when he wasn’t looking, and somebody’s sewn his buttonholes too small for him to push the buttons through.

“Come on.” Kian groans as he grips Mark under the arms and yanks him bodily onto the bed. Mark tries to sit, he really does, but his head’s so heavy all it can do is fall backwards onto the bed hard enough that he just might have given himself a concussion. His head’s definitely spinning enough. And god, Kian smells good.

“Toe hurts.” He mutters as Kian starts to wrestle with his shoe just that little bit too hard. He’s delighted to see Kian wince. At least someone other than Nicky cares.

“Sorry, mate.” Kian goes a bit gentler, and Mark sighs with relief as the shoe slips off, giving his throbbing foot that little bit extra room. Then the sock comes off, and Mark’s even happier to hear Kian hiss. That’ll teach him to make fun.

“Oh shit.”

“Wha’s wrong...?”

“Your toe’s pissing blood.”

“Hunh?” Mark tries to sit up to see, but the dizziness makes him lie down again. “Wha...?”

“Just stay still, I’ll get some water and clean it up.”

“Ki?”

“Stay still.” Kian orders sternly, getting up and disappearing into the bathroom. Mark hears him crashing around and allows himself a momentary smile at just how sweet Kian is when he’s being all caring. He wonders what’s wrong with his toe. It doesn’t hurt. Wait... it does. It’s... does...

It hurts. Shit, it does. It hurts, oh fuck.

“Kian? What’s...?”

“Mark, calm the fuck down. You’re drunk.”

“I... yeah.” Mark shuts his eyes again as Kian sits down next to him, tugging his foot into his lap. It’s cold next, and wet, and Mark tries to yank his foot away from the stinging touch.

“I’m washing it so I can see how bad it is. Stay still.”

“Okay...” Mark shuts his eyes, just revelling in the feel of Kian’s fingers ever-so-lightly brushing his skin. He can feel it above the soreness, and has to try not to moan out loud, instead biting his lip and hoping it passes as a response to the pain.

“Alright.” All too soon it’s over, and Kian’s turning it this way and that, just gently, Mark guessing that Kian’s trying to have a look at it. “It’s not as bad as it looks. Bled a hell of a lot though.” Mark’s about to ask exactly how bad it looks, but he’s having trouble forming the words and is extremely grateful when Kian jumps in ahead of him, saving him from having to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “You broke the nail.” Kian explains. “And it’s come off and stuck itself into your toe. You’ll have to throw your socks away. The blood will never come out.”

“’s it bad?”

“Nah.” Kian shrugs, beginning to wrap a bandage around it, Mark can feel the pressure. “Lucky. Was worried you wouldn’t be able to dance tomorrow night.”

Is that all Kian fucking cares about? Whether he can fucking dance or not? Mark remembers that should hardly come as a surprise. They’re bandmates, nothing more. The thing foremost in Kian’s mind is whether they’re going to lose a few quid, not the state of one of his oldest friend’s health, even if it is only a stubbed toe. He certainly doesn’t care about the state of his _boyfriend’s_ health. Actually, being a random fuck would be something nice at this point.

“All you care ‘bout.”

“Huh?” Kian looks up, confused, and Mark curses himself for even saying anything. But he’s too drunk to stop himself, and too hurt to care.

“All you care... money. Just... don’t ‘bout me”

“Don’t be stupid.” Kian sounds so rational and calm, and Mark bites his lip. Obviously his opinion doesn’t mean that much. Is Kian not even going to get mad over the accusation? “Come on. You’re drunk and rambling. We’ll put you to bed.”

“No... don’t wan...”

“Course you do.” Kian stands and Mark think just maybe the whack his foot makes against the edge of the bed was intentional, and he also thinks that maybe he deserved it. Christ, it fucking well hurts too, pain blooming in his toe and spreading through his lower leg, making him gasp.

Ow.

“Did... on purpose.”

“Stop talking crap.” Kian sits back down and Mark sighs as his shirt is unbuttoned and Kian yanks it off roughly, twisting his arms around. It takes Mark a second to realise that it would be easier for Kian if he helped a bit, but it’s too late now cos his shirt’s already off. So... fuck it. Jeans are gone next, an easier job this time, and Mark blushes when he realises he’s laid out in his boxers, in front of Kian. Kian doesn’t seem perturbed though, which makes Mark feel a little bit sad. He’s not even looking, is heading for the door. He hopes it’s just because Kian’s mad at him.

“Kin... sorry I’s a twat.”

“No you’re not.” Kian smiles from the door and turns back, coming to sit down on the bed. “Why do you think you’re a twat?”

“Cos... I was mean you? I don’ think you just care ‘bout money.”

You just don’t care about me.

“I know.” Kian pats his hair and then tugs the blankets up, tucking them in around Mark’s neck. “It’s okay, you’re just drunk.”

“Yeah. Loves you.”

Oh... fuck. That came out didn’t it? That wasn’t supposed to come out! Oh god, oh...

“Loves you too.” Kian laughs and bends down to put an annoyingly chaste kiss on his forehead. Mark’s too relieved that Kian doesn’t understand to care, though, and he smiles at the touch of Kian’s lips on his skin. “Go to sleep you deutz. I’ll see you when the hangover wears off.”

“’m drunk.”

“You bet.” Kian laughs. “See you in the morning.”

“Okay.” Mark snuggles down into the blankets as the door shuts, blinking into the dark and hearing Kian’s footsteps pad down the hallway and through his own door, which shuts quietly. Mark presses his face into the pillow.

“Loves you Kian.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Oh”

It’s all Mark can manage to choke out as every muscle in his body collapses backwards into the welcoming softness of the bed. Every single one screaming with exhaustion and agony, setting his nerves alight, and he thinks he might have groaned if he could breathe anymore. His body protests further as a heavy weight falls beside him, making the bed buck and roll underneath his fatigued body. For the first time in his life he feels like he’s entirely made of muscle, because that’s all he can feel. They’re screaming at him, asking why the hell he would punish them like this, and he’s not quite sure that he can tell them it’s not his fault.

The weight next to him swears softly, as if it’s been ripped from its very core, and Mark reaches out to touch Kian’s hand, trying to offer the little comfort that he hasn’t tried to use on himself. If he could open his eyes, he’s sure he would be delighting in the way the moonlight would glint off soft blond hair, rainbow shafts that would make him smile.

But he’s just too tired right now. He couldn’t open his eyes. Not if his own life depended on it.

It’s been one of the longest days of his life. Up at 3am for a 5am magazine shoot, and who even works at 5am anyway? Who in their right minds would even consider the possibility, except someone who wants to do an article on just how a lack of sleep can make you want to kill yourself. He’s sure he must be the poster-boy for that. Sleep is not something that’s been coming easily recently, but now it’s all he wants to do. Especially after the 9am in-store signing, the 11am pre-recording of television performances (TOTP and cd:UK), and the 2pm rehearsals. He doesn’t want to remember the concert, although he has a sinking feeling that it may not have been worth the money the audience shelled out. He has an even worse feeling that it was beyond crap. But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember. He remembers...

He doesn’t even remember Kian. Shit, this is...

This... what... what is this? This... too much. Too much all the time and...

“Mark?”

He tries to speak but it only comes out as a grunt. He’s not sure he cares. Who cares about coherency at this point? Who cares about _anything?_

“Take ye shoes off me bed.”

He awkwardly kicks them off, the thump of leather hitting carpet making his head hurt even more. He hadn’t been sure that it could hurt more, but apparently it can. Because it is. And even the smell of Kian, the feel of a hand on the back of his neck, it isn’t working. It just hurts. Everything hurts.

Everything hurts... all the time it hurts.

Too much.

He hears a sniffle, and just has to open his eyes, as hard as it is. It feels as though his eyelashes have been glued together, and it takes a quick rub and a hell of a lot of effort before he can prise them open and look at Kian. Kian’s face is pale underneath the deep flush over his cheeks, his eyes closed painfully tight, and as Mark watches a tear slips from one, rolling down Kian’s cheek and landing on the pillow, a silvery trail left in its wake. It makes Mark’s heart clench enough to make him want to be sick. It hurts so much, how much Kian hurts. And that Kian probably wouldn’t care that Mark is dying inside, if he knew.

“Ki?”

Kian shakes his head, and Mark just has to reach over and touch his hair as another tear slips out and Kian’s lips draw back, exposing his teeth in something like a snarl, but infinitely sadder. His heart tightens further and he shifts closer, pulling Kian into his arms as the floodgates break over his quickly dampening shoulder, Kian’s body hitching hard within his arms. Trembling. And Mark wants to die at how much the most precious thing in his life feels like it’s going to break. The last precious thing, because Kian’s all he has left. Everything else is broken now. The dream, the music. Everything’s broken except for Kian, and Mark knows that he has to put Kian back together because he just can’t do it anymore if he doesn’t. Kian cannot break, no matter the cost. It will be greater if he does, and Mark just can’t.

“It’ll be okay.”

It has to be.

Kian nods into his arms, the harsh sobs getting less pained and more... open. Not ripped from him anymore, pouring freely now, all over Mark’s shoulder as Kian just bends. He hasn’t broken, not yet, but something can only bend so far. Mark has felt like that for longer than he can remember. Bent. Everything else has broken, so it’s really only a matter of time now. Something just needs to brush him... and that will be it.

“Are you okay?”

Please be okay.

“Yeah.” Kian nods, pulling away. Tears are still running down his cheeks, and Mark pulls him back again, needing to fix it. “I’m... I’ll be okay.”

“Do you want anything?”

“No.” Kian shakes his head. “I’m... I’m just too tired. I just need to...” He shakes his head again. “I just need to sleep. I have to. Let me sleep.”

Mark begins to pull away, as much as it hurts to. It feels like something’s being ripped from him, but what Kian wants, Kian will have, because Mark couldn’t refuse him anything when he’s like this. He’s scared to, in case he pushes Kian that little bit too far. It’s like walking on eggshells. But at the same time he’s terrified that the two feet to his bed will be too far, that Kian will break sometime during the night and he won’t be able to stop it.

“No, no I...” Mark feels a childlike tug on his arm as he goes to stand. “Please don’t... please don’t go. Don’t leave me...” Kian is bending, it’s in his eyes. Red and purple and darkness where there shouldn’t be any. Enough to make Mark scramble back onto the bed before it goes any further. Enough to make him squeeze Kian tight, hold him all in one piece, so none of it can break anywhere. He needs to touch everything, make sure that it’s all still there. Rub Kian’s arms and back, tangle their legs together, stroke his hair.

Everything’s still where it should be, he satisfies himself. Kian’s fingers clutch convulsively at his back and, as Mark ducks his head to breath in Kian’s scent, he wonders if Kian’s trying to hold him together too. But the hands on his back relax and he curses himself for being so stupid. It doesn’t matter if he breaks. Kian doesn’t need him. Not like Mark needs Kian.

“Thanks.” Kian murmurs after a moment. He’s still shaking a bit, but it’s not so chaotic. Not so close to breaking. His breathing’s evened out too, just enough to not be terrifying, and his heartbeat is steady again. Still fast, but strong, and Mark lets himself relax now that they’re away from the edge of the precipice.

One day he’s going to break, he knows it. He’s known it for a long long time. But it’s not today, not here. Not with Kian in his arms.

“Go to sleep.” He murmurs, stroking Kian’s hair. “I’ll be here.”

What Kian mumbles is probably a thank you, but it’s too choked to be sure, and Mark doesn’t really care. Kian’s okay, that’s all the matters for the moment.

He’s so fucking tired as he rests his chin on Kian’s hair. So fucking tired of everything. He wants to sleep, and just... let it go. Just sleep. Just... go to sleep and... nothing.

But an hour later, blinking into the darkness and feeling Kian breathe against his chest, he wonders what he’d dream of if he did.

 

*

 

“Feehily, you’re on.”

Heading into the booth, Mark looks down at the music. He knows this song off by heart, he wrote it for Christ’s sakes, but still he needs to look. Pretend he doesn’t know it at all, that he’s not living it every single day of his life. It’s a sad song, about being in love with someone you can never have. Loving a friend, knowing that’s all they’ll ever be. Kian thought it was good, helped him out with it. Everyone did. But they don’t understand it like he does. They think it’s just a nice song that they can sell, show everyone they can write their own music. They don’t feel it. He needs to turn it off, he knows. So they can’t see. He’s shut his eyes while he sings, but he opens them to look at Kian. Kian looks back, his head cocked to the side, drumming his chin with the tips of his fingers. Thinking. Mark wonders if he knows.

“Go up an octave, yeah? It’ll sound better against Bry’s voice.”

Apparently not, and he’s sure that should come as a relief.

He nods, and starts again, trying not to let the lump fill his throat, let his voice crack, let it falter and die. Kian’s still looking at him, and Mark shrugs, stepping resolutely out of the booth before anyone can say anything.

“I need a glass of water.”

“Okay.” Everyone’s staring at him he’s sure, but he ignores them, striding straight into the bathroom, not faltering, not looking over at Shane and Nicky as he passes them. He steps into the toilet and falls to his knees, feeling his stomach surge. Feels his throat fill with acid, the dirty taste on his tongue. Heaves, once, twice, three times and nothing’s coming out. Nothing at all because he’s empty. Hollow, like a drum, and he hopes Nicky and Shane can’t hear him retching as tears stream down his cheeks.

It hurts, shit, it hurts so fucking much, and Kian’s just standing there, still. Just letting him die. Letting him fail. He feels like he’s finally starting to break. Finally, like he’s been waiting for it forever. Like he wants it. But he doesn’t want it. Just wants to stop waiting for it to happen, because that’s the worst part. The _knowing_ that it’s coming and there’s nothing in the whole world he can do except wait for it, knowing that every time Kian looks his way, it gets a little closer. And that every time Kian doesn’t look, he’s not sure he wants to wait any more.

“Hey lads.”

Mark? Are you okay? Say it, Kian. Just fucking say it.

Please.

Please, god.

“It’s your go Shay, we’re gonna lay down the harmonies before Bry and Mark go in. I don’t think Mark’s feeling too good.”

Shane says something and Kian laughs. At him. Has to be at him. Kian’s voice again, talking to Nicky, and Mark starts as his name’s called.

“Marky? You okay in there?”

“I’m fine Nix.” Mark replies, listening to the door swing shut. Pulling his hand away from its death grip on the toilet seat, he winces, feeling pain blind him for a second, the dried blood scattering his palm coming as a shock. It’s bleeding again, and he runs his hand gently along the cut to wipe it away, making his nerves reel and his head spin. When it goes away, there’s only silence, and Mark blinks.

Oh.

Barely watching what he’s doing, he lightly presses his nails into the deep scratch, feeling as if he’s on autopilot. He doesn’t want to do this. He _needs_ to. It’s not his choice. It’s like oxygen or water. It keeps him alive. Not living, but alive.

He presses harder, feeling the scab give beneath his fingers. Harder again, and there’s wet warmth seeping under his finger nails. Even harder, and it’s flooding his palm, and that’s all he can feel. The heat and the pain and the nothing. It’s ten times better than any orgasm, because he can’t think or see or smell or taste or hear anything. It’s just feeling. No feeling at all. He’s numb, and it hurts so fucking marvellously.

He can’t remember anything else that’s happened today, he doesn’t want to. He can’t remember when Kian stuck his head out from the bathroom that morning, wanting Mark to toss him some boxers so he didn’t have to come out and drip all over the carpet. How gorgeous he looked, wet blonde hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping everywhere, down his chest, making Mark want to follow the drips with his tongue, up to lips that were red with the heat and the steam. How, ten minutes later, Mark was still trying not to wonder what Kian looks like when he comes, trying not to imagine dragging those boxers back off with his teeth.

How it had felt walking to the lift, just needing those few last moments with Kian. Wanting to touch him, hold him, kiss him, but having to settle for just watching, same as every other day. How it had felt when Nicky had called out for them to hold the lift, for once in his life deciding to bite the bullet and ride down the fifteen floors to the ground. Mark had understood Nicky’s fear in those few moments. Like a huge wet blanket draped over his head, his whole body. Shutting him in and choking him off and weighting him down until all he wanted to do was scream please god let me go I can’t do this anymore, not anymore. He’d wanted to grab Kian’s hand, get him to make it all right. The same way Nicky had grabbed his. Squeezed it.

But then there had been nothing, just blinding, agonising pain, and Mark didn’t know why. Couldn’t, because it was breaking everything apart, misting everything over, like some strange dream. But so real, so stark at the same time. Pure physical agony. Pure and real and nothing and everything in the world.

He can’t remember how it felt when the lift had opened, back into the real world, and he breathed a sigh that wasn’t of relief. Because he doesn’t like the real world. It hurts in the real world. There’s hate and pain and hunger and sadness and loss. And love. There’s all these horrible things that he’s not sure are worth living for. Not that he wants to die. He just doesn’t feel like living. Not here, anyway. Because the real world... it isn’t real at all. It’s what they say is real so they can break him, tear him down and make him believe that their way is the only one. The only true one.

It had gone then, the pain. Opened up into their reality, but still thrumming there, reminding him that it exists. That there’s something past all this. Something honest and true that he doesn’t think he will ever see again, except for in story books. He can’t see his world behind it now. Only the fake one, where things don’t live, they survive. Where things only hurt inside him, not on the outside. It’s all mind games and manipulation in this world and he _hates_ it. Always has.

When he looked down, he was bleeding. Not much, but the red was so stark against the grey he wondered if everyone could see. It was almost glowing. He doesn’t want them to see, doesn’t want them to know. He can’t let them know that he feels, because feeling is weakness. You can’t be weak here. You have to be strong. He has to be strong. The strong survive, and the weak die. That’s how it works. He can’t let them know that he feels this much, can’t let them feel it too. You can’t feel in this business. You’ll die.

He doesn’t remember seeing Bryan and Shane in the front car, kissing. Not as though their lives depended on it, no urgency. Just slow, gentle, deep kisses, so full of love. Or what they think is love. That’s not real love, Mark knows it. Real love is hate and it’s anger and it’s jealousy. It’s the worst thing in the world, and he wishes he was as ignorant as they were.

He doesn’t remember Nicky climbing into the car, nor feeling Nicky’s hand brush his hip, nor the look Nicky had given him. Like a predator. Like Mark was a mouse in a trap, back broken, struggling even though there’s no possible, conceivable hope. He doesn’t remember the almost tangible presence of Kian on his other side, and how he had wanted to turn towards that, like a flower to the sun, just needing it to survive. But he was too dead already, and too tired.

He doesn’t remember Kian’s smirk, the one that made his stomach flip and made him remember why Kian is his best friend. His love. He doesn’t remember Nicky’s soft snores, testament to a slowly disappearing cold. He doesn’t remember the cold weight of a marker in his hand, or Kian’s soft sniggers as they surveyed their canvas. Doesn’t remember feeling his ribs ache with barely constrained laughter, or feeling Kian’s hand on his shoulder as they shared a moment of unbridled hysteria behind Nicky’s back. Doesn’t remember seeing Shane pushing Bryan back into the car as he threatened to give the game away, or the twitch of their producer’s mouth when he caught sight of Nicky. Doesn’t remember Nicky stomping into the bathroom in true diva style after hearing the producer ask if he was ‘trying out a new look’. Doesn’t remember the solid thwack of Nicky’s hand over the back of his head, or the cold wood under his knees and elbows as he collapsed, every inch of him hurting with barely constrained laughter.

He doesn’t remember wondering which part was the funniest. The drag queen lips? The word ‘blonde’ emblazoned across his forehead? The tears on his left cheek? The thick black lashes around his right eye? The fact that it really didn’t go well with the crimson of Nicky’s face, and that he’d considered telling Nicky it suited him.

He doesn’t remember Nicky asking who did it, or seeing Kian point at him, ratting him out. He’d glared then, already thinking up ways to get the smirking bastard back, thinking that there must be some sort of rule that you didn’t dob your friends in. That they must all be on the same side. He doesn’t remember feeling sad when he remembered that they’re only on the same side because nobody else is. That it’s just them against the world.

Nick’s face had turned purple then, but he doesn’t remember. All the black marker making him look like some kind of monster. The kind that hides under your bed on All Saints Day. But at the same time, he had looked betrayed. Not angry, just so very very sad inside, and Mark had wondered how he would feel if Kian had done the same to him. But it’s only a crush, what Nicky has. He can’t possibly feel what Mark does.

Mark’s is forever.

He doesn’t remember feeling relieved when Shane put his arm around Nicky’s shoulder and led him into the bathroom. Led him away. Promised to help him get it all off.

He doesn’t remember that now. He can’t. He knows, remembers, thinks... nothing. Wants nothing, except for this. Everything stops for the pain, because it’s nothing at all, and that’s all he wants now, because it’s the only real thing left. He used to want other things. A successful singing career, to meet Mariah Carey, to fall in love with a beautiful girl who his parents would approve of. To fall in love with a beautiful boy who would love him back. For it to stop raining so he could go and splash in the puddles, for his aunt to not pinch his cheek, and for steak and chips from the Carlton café.

But those are silly things, things children want. He’s not a child anymore. He’s had one night stands, and kiss-and-tells. He smokes, he’s gotten drunk more times than he’d care to count. He looks after himself, not wishing for his mam to come tuck him in every night and make his breakfast every morning. He’s been lied to over and over again, been told that what he’s doing makes an impact, that he has a voice. He doesn’t, he knows that after years of deliberate ignorance. The record company... they don’t care. He might as well be screaming, but it’s just complaining to them. They know what they’re doing, so he should listen. He can’t have his own opinions anymore, so he doesn’t. He stopped bothering. He stopped wanting, because he can’t have.

He stopped wanting when he was seventeen and he stepped out onto that stage in the Hawkswell theatre. He stopped wanting when their first single shot to number one. When their second single shot to number one. When their seventh rocketed to number one. When their eighth didn’t. When Smash Hits wrote what his favourite colour was for the hundredth time that year, and when the Sun predicted they would break up six months ago.

When Kian never started loving him. When he stopped feeling.

He stops digging just before the tears begin to spill down his cheeks again, not wanting the others to know. They can’t know how much he feels. You can’t feel, not in this business.

He stands finally, flushing the empty toilet, licking the wet from his hand, savouring the metal tang and grimacing as his tongue stabs the nerves exposed amongst all the open, soft flesh. Opening the door, he jumps as he comes face to face with Nicky. He’s smiling, and Mark feels his stomach lurch again at the macabre way Nicky’s lips twist underneath the smudged marker streaks.

“Not got it all off, then?”

“No.” Nicky frowns, scratching his face. “Well on the way, though. Give us a hand?”

Mark nods, the sense of caring coming back ever-so-slowly. Just slow enough that he’s willing to help Nicky out like this. Touch him even. It doesn’t matter, because he’s still numb. Still uncaring. Nothing matters now except the pain.

“I’m sorry.”

He can still pretend to care, can’t he?

“No harm done.” Nicky smiles, Mark thinks it might be sadly. He doesn’t think it matters. “Just a joke, eh?”

“Yeah.” Mark smiles back, reaching out for a tissue and wetting it, beginning to scrape at the black marker. A little too hard, he guesses, because Nicky hisses and tries to pull away.

“Sorry.”

“Just a bit rough. It’s okay. I’m tough.”

“Sorry.” Mark rubs at the black, watching as it begins to melt away, feeling himself come back as it does. The pain melting away and the wound closing over. He shuts his eyes for a second, and when he opens them they’re locked with Nicky’s, which have something in them he wishes he’d noticed before he started this.

He reaches up to touch Nicky’s forehead. Not just touch. Hold. Hold it still so he can scrape the black from Nicky’s skin. Fingernails digging in just a little so he can prove that there’s nothing fucking tender about this. Trying to wash away what he should never have put there in the first place, and stop Nicky from feeling. None of them needs to feel anymore, doesn’t anyone understand that? They’re robots, just toys for the media and the record company and the fans to toss around any way they like. Pulling them every way at once as if they were chewing gum. They don’t need feelings for that. They just need to be able to stretch. If they have feelings, they won’t stretch, and then they’ll break. Feelings make you break. Love’s a feeling, and look what that’s done.

“Got it.” Mark scrubs the last bit away with a final jab, drops the tissue into the waste-paper bin, and looks back at Nicky, just to make sure it’s all gone. It’s gone from his skin, but Nicky’s eyes are dark, and Mark wonders if he’s just pushed it deeper.

“Thanks.” Nicky’s voice is croaky, full of feeling. Mark shudders. He catches movement and sees Nicky’s legs spread a little wider. Sees slender fingers run through rumpled hair.

“Mark?” Something in Nicky sounds like it’s breaking too.

“We best go back.” Mark stands, turning on the tap and scrubbing the leftover smudges of black from his hands, scrubbing them all away and trying not to moan as soap rubs into his gashed flesh. Tries not to let Nicky see.

He looks up to see Nicky’s reflection nod, and returns it himself.

“I hope it’s all come off.”

“Yeah.” Mark’s already heading for the door. Walking straight into the empty booth, past Kian. Sings, digs his nails in so he can’t feel it. Just sings it, trying not to sympathise with his own pain.

He laughs as he finishes. He has to. It’s that or cry.


	3. Chapter 3

“Go fish."

Mark reaches for a card, pairing it off with one of his own and adding it to the small stack he’s accumulated. He’s winning for once, and he thinks maybe he shouldn’t be proud of that when he’s lost the last fifteen games. Honestly lost. Not just come second or third. Dead last. But then, he’s really having too much fun to care about that at the moment, is too busy just hanging out with his four best friends in the world. If he closes his eyes he could almost believe that they’re laid out in Shane’s living room, the five of them just having a stupidly good time while Mae brings them a steady stream of soft drink and crisps.

Of course ‘almost’ is the operative word. It’s a bit hard to totally believe it when you’re riding in the top floor of a double-decker bus, which is fully equipped with an X-box, PS2, very reasonably sized TV, and a bar-fridge.

And yet they’re not using any of it. They’re spread out on the floor playing go fish.

Well... they might be using the bar fridge. Just a little bit.

“Bry? Three?”

“Yep.” Mark accepts the card, adding it to his stack. “Mark? Vodka?”

“Yep.” Mark hands it over, sitting up as he does, careful to hide his hand. He doesn’t want them gaining an advantage when it looks like he’s finally ahead for once.

It’s been almost a month now and it hasn’t gone away, is still sitting there glaring up at him whenever he looks down. He really does wish it would go, but it just doesn’t seem to want to, which might have something to do with the fact that he can’t stop picking at it. He’s always been like that, really. A picker. No scab or mosquito bite free from scratching and fiddling. He counts himself lucky that he’s never had anything resembling acne. He scars too easily.

But yeah, a month and it’s still there, not even close to healing.

And nobody’s noticed a thing.

It can’t be much longer now. They’re not that oblivious.

“Shano, queen?”

“Go fish.”

“Ki, joker?”

“Yeah, here.” Mark pairs off his last card, going to pick another three up from the stack. Taking the vodka back he takes a sip, passing it to Nicky, who smiles. He smiles back, for once not caring that Nicky likes him. Because he likes Nicky too. Likes everyone here. They’ve kept him just that little bit sane, as crazy as they all drive him sometimes, which in this business is a blessing. He couldn’t live without any of them, and is ridiculously grateful that he has them.

He wonders what country they’re in. Is it Germany now? Still Switzerland? He can’t tell from the road signs that are constantly whizzing past. Does it matter as long as he gets the name right at the concert?

He wonders what Rowen’s doing right now, what his mam’s doing. How his brother did on that assignment he was agonising over last time Mark went home. How long ago was that? A month? Two? What time is it at home, anyway? He might be able to figure it out if he knew what country they’re in.

“Mark?”

“Uh?” He looks up at Kian, who smiles.

“Your go, mate.”

“Sorry.” He shakes his head, trying to clear the fog. “Zoned out there for a second. Uh...”

He wonders if Kian could possibly look any sexier, and whether he tastes as good as he looks.

And then, digging his fingers into his hand, he stops wondering.

 

*

 

“No no no no no no no.” The gentle push on his shoulder isn’t nearly enough to unbalance Mark, and he smiles as Kian’s arm drops back onto the floor like a dead weight. “No.” Kian reiterates, pouting, his eyes narrowing.

“Marky’s... no.” He pouts even harder, and Mark just can’t stop a laugh from escaping.

Kian’s slumped against the wall, hopelessly drunk, and looks like possibly the cutest thing Mark’s ever seen in his life. Honestly, the way his eyes are glazed, his mouth hanging slightly open... it’s just gorgeous. He’s been saying ‘no’ for about ten minutes now, and Mark’s not quite sure why, but either way it’s incredibly funny. Especially seeing as he’s not the most sober person on the planet. More sober than Kian, but then most people are.

“No.” As Mark watches, Kian finally loses his balance, sliding down the wall slackly to curl up on the carpet, the bottle still clasped in his hand and still miraculously upright.

“No?”

“No.” Kian shakes his head, trying to continue drinking from the bottle, which doesn’t really work on this kind of angle because it mostly ends up on the carpet. A quickly spreading puddle underneath Kian’s cheek.

“Bollocks.”

Mark smiles to himself, grabbing Kian’s shoulder and tugging him upright again, trying to mop up the puddle with the corner of his own jacket. But it’s too late, it’s soaked into the carpet, so Mark doesn’t bother anymore. Instead he looks back at Kian, meeting glazed blue orbs that smile stupidly at him.

“No.”

“Okay.” Mark nods. “I think it’s time for beddy-byes Ki.”

“Nooooo.” Kian moans softly. “No, don’t want beddy-byes.” He giggles to himself, and Mark has to laugh back because, let’s face it, drunk people are funny. Especially when they’re this cute. “Marky, Mark, Marky.” Kian sings after a moment of silence, through which Mark just sits smirking. He crooks his finger, and Mark leans forward to hear what Kian’s got to say. “I got a secret.”

“What’s that?”

There’s no answer, and Mark pulls back after a moment’s wait to see why. Kian’s gaze is far away, his lips moving silently as he taps the bottom one awkwardly with his index finger. He looks back at Mark after a moment, realisation dawning.

“I don’t remember.” Kian grins, as if it’s some grand epiphany. “Oops.”

“That’s all right, Ki. You’ll remember in the morning, yeah?” Well, he probably won’t, but by the morning he probably won’t remember that he had a secret in the first place, so it really makes no odds in the end. Kian’s still grinning, and Mark pats his hair, making Kian grin wider.

“Yeah.” Kian nods, reaching out to take Mark’s hand, squeezing it. “Marky?”

“Yeah?”

“You know what?”

“Not personally, no.”

“Shut up.” Kian glares at him, but by the time he finishes the gaze has sort of slid away, and he’s more glaring at the wall behind Mark than anything. “I’m not going to tell you now.”

“Oh, please tell me.” Mark’s not sure he could sound more insincere if he tried, but it’s not like Kian can tell that. The boy’s glaring at his own hand. Mark wonders if he’s trying to set it alight with his eyes, like Superman, and then decides that if that’s the case Superman should never get drunk.

“I want to know.”

“Do you really?”

‘No’, is right on the tip of Mark’s tongue.

“Oh yes, definitely.”

Kian eyes him suspiciously and Mark makes himself stare back, smiling as Kian taps his forehead thoughtfully, his other hand still grasping Mark’s. “You’re still my best friend.” He says seriously, and then collapses back against the wall, leaving Mark smiling, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“I know.”

“Yeah.” Kian nods. “Me too?”

“Course you are.” Mark nods, squeezing Kian’s hand back, feeling it hurt and blind him for a second, chasing away the threatening tears. Kian nods slowly, turning their hands over, and then pausing. Going completely still as he looks at Mark’s palm.

“What did you do?”

“Oh nothing.” Mark snatches it back, curling his hand into a ball and cursing himself for being so stupid as to forget that no-one should see that. Why, he’s not sure. People get cut every day, don’t they? It’s no big deal. But that cut is his, and he needs it. It’s not everyone else’s to look at. It shows what he doesn’t want other people to see. Especially Kian.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing. Just broke a bottle. Cut myself trying to clean it up.”

“Oh, okay.” Kian nods slowly, his eyes boring straight into Mark’s and making his throat tighten. “Does it hurt?”

“A little bit.”

“Aww, poor baby.” The seriousness is gone from Kian’s eyes, the presence. He’s back to silly again, and he giggles as he takes Mark’s hand and lifts it to his lips. “I’ll kiss it better.” The touch of plush, soft lips to his skin makes Mark shudder, but Kian’s probably too drunk to notice, thank god. A soft tongue laps over the wound, probably trying to soothe it, but just making Mark hurt even worse. Kian smiles as he releases it.

“Better?”

Mark nods, patting Kian’s hand.

“I think it’s time to sleep now.”

“No.” Kian’s back to ‘no’ again, apparently, as he stands up on legs that are so unsteady that Mark has to stand up too, in case Kian falls. The movement of the bus would normally be enough to unbalance him a little bit, and drunkenness can’t be helping. He doesn’t fall, luckily, just grins stupidly instead in a way that’s just so endearing, and tugs Mark forward, putting Mark’s arm around his waist.

“No.” Kian shakes his head. “We have to dance.”

Mark doesn’t resist as his other hand is grabbed in Kian’s. He’s sure they must look a right pair, like some sodding ballroom couple in one of those idiot movies his grandmother likes to watch. ‘Oh yes darling, do you like my four foot high hair and the enormous mole on my lip?’ That kind of thing. Like Shakespeare, but more melodramatic. But still, Kian’s warm, and Mark has to admit to himself that he’s wanted to do this for quite possibly his whole life.

“Why do we have to dance?”

“Because...” Kian looks thoughtful for a moment, but then he brightens. “Because the night is young. And we’re young. And we should be... erm...” He pauses, looking for the right word. “...young.”

“It’s 2am. And what’s that got to do with dancing?”

“Well, the morning is young. And I like dancing.”

“You do.” It’s not really a question.

“Yes.” Kian nods anyway, the kind of ‘that’s final’ nod that normally would make Mark agree with him straight away. But right now he’s not really sure what they’re talking about. He’s also not exactly sober.

“But there’s no music.”

“Course there is.” Kian nods, putting Mark’s other hand around his waist and stepping forward until their bodies are laid flush against each other, every inch of them touching. Mark has to sigh at the way Kian smells, and how warm he is. And how much he honestly does love Kian during moments like this. “You have to imagine it.”

“I do?”

“Mmm.” Kian nods, beginning to sway, and Mark begins to move with him after a moment, pressing his face into Kian’s hair as he feels Kian bury his face in his neck, hot breath coming warm and wet over his shoulder and making Mark swoon. Kian smells like heaven as always, and Mark lets himself drift on that for awhile, if only to ignore how close his heart is to breaking.

Shit, it fucking hurts so much, yet it feels so good. Kian in his arms, bodies pressed together. Warmth and love everywhere, even though he knows Kian could never feel the same way about him. Kian loves him though, has said it a million times. He’s still his best friend, even after all this crazy bullshit life. Will always be his best friend. He’ll never give up on that one, even if he feels like he’s dying inside every time Kian’s near. Times like this.

It takes him a moment to realise that Kian’s not swaying anymore, and that his breathing is deeper and slower. He hears a soft snore and smiles.

“Come on, love.” He murmurs, pulling away and scooping Kian up into his arms, realising for the first time how much lighter Kian feels, like he’s lost a lot of weight fast. He probably has, they all do when they’re on tour, but it always comes back as soon as they’re home again. Or whatever substitutes as home nowadays. Kian wraps his arms around Mark’s neck, mumbling something in his sleep that sounds very much like ‘no’.

Kian doesn’t stir as Mark heaves his weight – considerable, even though Kian’s become so slight lately – down the stairs of the bus and slides him into bed, pulling the blankets up and tucking them in. Mark sits watching for awhile, marvelling at the way all the worry lines disappear as Kian sleeps, making him look so much younger. Making him look his own age for the first time in years.

Stroking Kian’s hair back from his forehead, Mark smiles, not bothering to brush away the tear that rolls down his nose to land on Kian’s cheek.

 

*

 

He’s slowly going insane, Mark thinks as he blinks into the darkness, roused by a soft laugh from the bottom bunk across from him. He’d finally almost nodded off after over two hours, and here he is again, wide awake and desperately exhausted. He’s tried everything. Counting sheep (which _so_ doesn’t work), trying to think sleepy thoughts, even trying to match his breathing with the slowly rhythmic snores floating up quietly from Nicky over in the corner. Nothing seems to be working, and now Shane and Bryan seem to have decided to compound the problem further by deciding this is a good time to wake up and shag!

“Lads!” He hisses into the darkness, finally snapping as the bunk starts to squeak. “I’m trying to sleep.”

“Sorry.” Shane’s voice, a croaky whisper that Mark _so_ doesn’t want to think about, floats up to his bunk and he hears Bryan snicker.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Bryan’s voice now. “What time is it anyway?”

Rolling his eyes, Mark looks at his watch, squinting against the artificial light it gives off. He doesn’t really need to look; he’s been glancing at it about every two minutes, just getting more and more frustrated with himself.

“Half past four.”

“What are you still doing awake, then?”

“Can’t sleep.” Mark admits, kicking the blankets off for the millionth time and hoping that maybe now he’ll be the right temperature to be able to sleep.

“ _You_ can’t sleep?!” Mark squeezes his eyes shut at the mocking tone in Bryan’s voice. It’s really not something he needs to hear right now. But then, the whole world’s against him, so why not his friends as well? They could serve drinks, make a party of it. Pick on Mark day. “How come?”

“Just can’t.” He sighs, rolling over onto his back, trying to get more comfortable and remembering that he’s tried this position already. Well, maybe it’s three-hundred and twenty-sixth time lucky. “Fuck I’m tired.”

“Yeah.” Shane yawns. “Me too.”

“That’s why you were going for a shag then?”

“Well, you know what I mean.” He can almost _hear_ Shane shrug. And isn’t that sad? Another hint that they might have spent way too much time in each other’s pockets with no other honestly human contact. He wonders what all his friends at home are doing right now and quickly dismisses the thought from his mind. He shouldn’t be thinking. He’ll get all awake again, and that’s the last thing he needs.

He nods at the ceiling, which he can only just see. But he can see it more than he could a few minutes ago, and quick peek through the curtains near his head proves that yes, the sun is starting to come up, shafting over the hills in the distance and glancing over the road rolling away beneath them. And he’s not had a wink of sleep. Isn’t life just grand sometimes?

“Hey, sun’s coming up.” Mark shakes his head at Bryan’s discovery, wishing like hell he could go back a few hours to when the sun _wasn’t_ coming up. But then he’d be right back where he started and he’s tired and frustrated enough already. “Cool.”

“Wow, sunrise. Never seen one of those before.”

“Shut up Feehily.” Bryan retorts, the effect of which is much diminished when Mark’s last name is obscured by a yawn. “Go to sleep.”

”You know, I never thought of that? Funny how things like that don’t occur to you at four in the morning.” He scoffs, and then sighs. It’s not their fault that for the first time in his life he can’t sleep. Normally sleeps on a nail, he does, but now it’s like he couldn’t sleep if somebody drugged him. He considers doing it himself, but it’s just too much effort when he’s this exhausted. “Sorry lads.” He says after a moment, trying not to cry out of sheer frustration. “It’s not your fault. I’m just being a bastard.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” Bryan snorts and Mark has to smile into his pillow. Break out the streamers, because it’s Pick on Mark day. Fun for all concerned. “Come on Shaney, let’s go watch the sunrise.”

“Do we have to?”

“Yes.” There’s movement, and the corner of Mark’s mouth twitches into a smile as Bryan’s head appears in his line of vision. “You wanna come?”

“Not if you’re gonna get dirty with each other.”

“Eh, we’ll bring a blanket. You’ll never be able to tell.” Mark honestly thinks he’s serious for a moment, testament to how tired he actually is. They may be pathetic and horny, but Mark doesn’t think they’d actually have the gall to get off in front of him. Well, he hopes not anyway. “We’ll keep our hands to ourselves. Scouts honour.” Bryan actually salutes.

“Yeah. Okay.” It’s something to keep his mind off how totally shattered he is, anyway. Something to do. Maybe he’ll fall asleep out of boredom, if he’s lucky. He slides out of the bed and shuffles to the ladder, going down a few rungs and then dropping the rest of the way, the floor startlingly cold underneath his bare feet. Grabbing his blanket off the bed he steals a quick glance at Kian. He’s laid out flat on his back, blankets untucked and wrapped around his legs like a giant blue furry caterpillar. His mouth is wide open, tonsils on full display, and his hair’s tangled haphazardly over the pillow. Mark smiles, picking up his pillow.

“Kino looks comfortable.” Shane says from behind him, and Mark nods. He does. So sweet.

They all trudge upstairs, one after the other, Mark in front of the others so he doesn’t have to watch Bryan stare at Shane’s arse. He knows he will be. It’s the law.

It’s not long until they’re all relaxed into their chairs. Mark on his own while Shane sits back between Bryan’s legs with Bry’s arms wrapped around his waist. Every now and then they let out little sighs, which are incredibly distracting when Mark’s trying to sleep. He knows there’s really no point now. The sky is bright with pinks and yellows, and before long it’ll be completely blue. The sun’s already glaring straight through the bus window and into his eyes, and there’s no room for his pillow where he’s sitting. Maybe he can get a few minutes in before the show. There’s usually a couch in the dressing room. He’s slept on those before, so there’s no problem as long as he doesn’t mess up his hair or clothes or makeup.

“What country are we in, anyway?” Bryan pipes up after a minute. “Are we in Germany yet?” Mark shakes his head. He thought they were in Germany yesterday, but maybe not. He’s really not sure, and it’s less of a comfort than it should be that nobody else seems to know. Surely somebody should know what’s going on; otherwise they’re just sort of floating about. Well, hopefully the driver knows.

“I thought we were doing Germany next week?” Shane says, looking around confusedly.

“It is next week.” Bryan replies, kissing Shane’s hair.

“Is it?” Shane’s eyes widen. “You’re kidding? I thought it was Friday!”

“Monday.” Mark shakes his head. “It is Monday, isn’t it? I thought it was.”

“No, it’s Sunday.” Bryan replies, shaking his head back. He pauses, tapping his chin. “I think.”

“You think.” Mark repeats, shaking his head. “Fuck.”

“Fuck.” Shane echoes, his voice vaguely shocked. “We must be going nuts. How many shows have we done?”

Mark says eighteen at exactly the same time Bryan says twenty-three. They stare at each other, and then burst into laughter. Because really, it’s just so fucking absurd that there’s not much else Mark can do. Shane laughs too, and before he knows it, Mark’s hunched into a ball, legs up to his chest as he goes off into hysterics. Shane and Bryan are clinging to each other, almost wetting themselves with laughter, and Mark has to laugh harder at their faces, all scrunched up, mouths wide open, absolutely screaming.

“What’s so funny?” The laughter abruptly stops as all eyes turn to Kian, stood at the top of the stairs, rubbing his eyes sleepily. Mark smiles at him, suddenly feeling a little more awake as he looks at Kian, hair mussed everywhere, cheek blotched where his hand was resting, one eye bloodshot, t-shirt half hanging off one shoulder with one corner tucked into his boxer shorts, the seam of which starts more at his hip than his navel, they’ve twisted around so much.

He looks so absolutely gorgeous Mark can’t believe it.

“Morning Ki.”

“Hey.” Kian yawns, collapsing down in the seat opposite Mark. “What’s going on?”

“What day is it?” Bryan pipes up before Mark can say ‘nothing’.

“Thursday.” Kian says it with so much complete and utter conviction it’s scary.

“Ah, well, we were all wrong.” Shane shrugs. “What country are we in?”

“Sweden.”

“What?!”

“Um, Sweden?” Kian raises his eyebrows at Shane. “What’s with the interrogation? I’ve just woke up.”

“Wait... so, when are we in Germany?” Mark has to know.

“We did Germany two weeks ago.” Kian turns his stare on Mark, the red blotching his left eye not detracting from his always piercing blue gaze. Germany was two weeks ago. How could he have missed that? “What’s with you lads? Cos I’ve got an absolute blinder and I’m not really in the mood for jokes, yeah? Don’t take the mick.”

Shit, Mark wishes they were.

“No, just... forgot. Must be tired.”

“Okay.” Kian blinks, something clouding his eyes for a moment, but then disappearing before Mark can get a hold on it. He thinks it might have been uncertainty, but he’s not sure. But then Kian smiles, and Mark forgets. He always seems to when Kian smiles.

Bryan shakes his head. “No way.”

“I need the toilet.” He honestly does. His bladder is aching fit to burst, and he doesn’t think he can hold on much longer. He wonders why he hadn’t noticed until now. Probably just proves that he’s going insane.

Shutting the door behind him, he tugs the elastic waist of his pyjama pants down just enough, sighing as the pressure begins to go. He leans one hand against the wall in front of him, feeling too exhausted to stand up without some kind of support, and shuts his eyes, trying to think around the cotton wool packing his head.

“Two weeks ago.” He murmurs to himself, trying to put something real to the words by speaking them out loud. But it still doesn’t seem right. How can he not remember something that’s happened to him so recently? He doesn’t have a tiny flash of it, not at all. It’s like there’s a big black space. Just an empty spot. What’s the last thing that he remembers before now?

Kian. Kian last night, and before that...

His mam. His mam and dad and brothers, saying goodbye at the front door as he snuck out. It was still dark, first thing in the morning, and he was trying not to wake the neighbours. He remembers the smell of early-morning dew on freshly cut grass, can remember hearing a cow mooing from somewhere and a car backfire from over the hill, every detail perfect, even the bite of the Spring breeze on his face and hands. But so long ago. Longer than... a month? Two? How long have they been out here anyway? How’s he supposed to know that when he doesn’t even know where they are, what day it is? What happened after he got in the cab outside his house? They’ve been on planes, in cars, in buses. But that’s nothing new, and he’s not sure his memories of that are from _this_ tour. They could have been from any tour. Any time in the past five years.

This isn’t real. This isn’t happening. It can’t be if he doesn’t remember.

He wonders if he’ll remember these moments by tomorrow.

What’s going on?

Where is he?

Fuck, _who_ is he? He doesn’t know any more. He can’t remember.

He’s... shit. What the fuck is real any more?

Make it real.

Scrabbling at his wrist, he yanks his sleeve up to his elbow, and looks down at the deep cut on his hand. But he can’t do this. It’s been there too long and they’ll start to notice if it doesn’t go away. Kian already has. He needs to hide it, so they can’t see.

Pushing the sleeve back down he gropes at his buttons, ripping them apart, and registering an unfortunate popping sound that heralds the departure of a button. It clinks against the toilet seat and drops in, but he doesn’t care. It’s only a button. Something so small and insignificant it doesn’t mean a thing in the world, especially in his. There are bigger things to worry about here. Or maybe there aren’t. Maybe he just pretends there are to give it some kind of purpose.

But that doesn’t matter right now, or it won’t in a few moments. There are razors in the shelf above the sink. He doesn’t like shaving, it hurts and he always cuts himself, or ends up with a horrible itchy rash. It’ll serve his purposes now, though, and he feels the muscles underneath the razor clench as he moves it carefully over his stomach, looking for a spot. The best spot, where he can hide it from everyone, where he’ll never slip up and let them see it. Somewhere his shirt will never ride up, or come unbuttoned. It has to be perfect, has to be a secret.

Biting down on his lip, he chooses a spot further up, just to the left of his breastbone. It’s perfect here. He can feel his heart beating directly beneath all the soft concealing flesh and bites down harder as he places the razor there. As the razor starts to slide, a low keening sound that could have been a hiss has his teeth buried so deep in his lip, and he feels himself gag on it. Shit the pain is fucking terrible, fucking wonderful. He fixes his eyes on his own image, watching his face blur, his eyes finally becoming alive for the first time in... god knows how long. There are dark circles of exhaustion around them but it doesn’t matter because Christ, the _heat._ He can feel heat further down too, and drags his eyes away from the reflection of blissful agony in front of him, looking down as he blood begins to seep out, just tiny droplets, but then a flood as they break free and cascade over his flesh, staining it and beading along curled strands of dark hair. He can’t go further, he knows it. It can’t be too big, too obvious. But as he takes the razor away, he begins to fade again and just has to press back down. Agony agony agony as the second line tears through the first, crossing it and making him bite his lip even harder to stop the cry of ecstasy, and the moan of pain he knows will follow it, his mind descending into babbling nothingness

Fucking hell, it hurts. Fucking... hell, god help me, please god help me, please I can’t... make it real, make me remember please god anything anything at all. Anything please. I can do this, I’m useless can’t cope but I need this and no-one will ever know please don’t let them know. Please don’t let them see me hurt please god blood blood everywhere...

Breathing out a sigh of... relief? he lifts the razor, watching the blood stain the blades a rusty orange colour. It looks so clean though, and a quick glance down at his shirt proves that the cuts can’t be seen, not by anyone, not even by him because there’s just so much blood. He rips a paper towel from the roll on top of the toilet, trying to blot away the evidence, hissing as it rubs over the wound he can’t see. It’s stained his skin, he can tell that once the blood has washed away, and he wets another paper towel, relieved when it finally gets rid of the discoloration. He dries it with the soft white handtowel hanging next to the sink, moving carefully around the wound, not wanting to get anything on the towel in case the others notice. He almost wants to rub the towel over it though, feel that delicious pain again, but he knows he can’t. He’s had his fix for now. He’s not so weak that he’ll need it again right away. He can’t have too much. The others will know, and they can’t. Can’t see the deep cross over his heart that’s bled so much.

It’s still bleeding though, he realises as he goes to do his shirt up again, and he grabs a wad of toilet paper to blot it, frowning as it doesn’t stem the flow. It’s still going, trickling down his chest, and he keeps trying to blot, scraping it away and flushing the paper when it gets too sodden to do anything but spread the mess, grabbing some more. But it doesn’t stop. It keeps coming, and now even the stain isn’t coming off. It’s still coming. He needs help, he feels dizzy, oh shit, he needs to stop the blood.

He scrabbles in the cupboard, needing something to cover it. A bandaid, anything, and brightens as he spots a tiny box marked with a red cross. He pulls it down, trying to look inside although all he feels like doing is bending over the toilet and throwing up. Grabbing a pad of cotton wadding he jams it over the wound, holding it still, trying to stop the flood, and tries to peel off a piece of surgical tape with one hand, swearing softly as the edge rips and the roll falls into the sink, dropped from fingers that don’t seem to want to go as fast as normal. He picks it up, tries again, even though the tape’s slippery in his wet hands.

He can’t do this.

He discards the tape, grabbing a bandaid and only just managing to open it one-handed, untangling it awkwardly when its sticks to itself and smoothing it down over one edge of the padding. It stays, thank god, and he does the same with another and another, until the padding surrounded on all sides by bandaids, almost comical in their obscurity, a sharp blot of red darkening the center.

It seems to have stopped now, slowed at least, and Mark collapses back to sit on the toilet seat, sighing with relief. Looks at the chunk of padding spread over his heart, stopping the blood. Presses his hand to it, feeling pain blaze along his nerves, and then abate as it’s released. He buttons his shirt, covering the wound and appraising himself. He smiles.

The others will never know that he was bleeding.


	4. Chapter 4

“Mark!”

Mark sighs, pausing in his purposeful gait down the hall. “Nicky.” He replies, not turning around. He fixes his eyes on the white skirting board as Nicky’s footsteps approach, blinking at the dappled cream above – that hideous hotel colour that shouldn’t have been considered fashionable at any point – just waiting for the inevitable.

“Where you headed?”

“Just to my room.” He shrugs, turning a little to look at the expectantly smiling face of his friend. “I’m a bit tired. Thought I’d have an early one.”

“All the late nights, eh?”

Thankyou Dr. Byrne, for your excellent diagnosis.

“Yeah.” He yawns, imagining Kian yawning to help it along – even imaginary yawns are infectious – and decides that it makes him feel even more tired, so he does it again, just to add realism. “Yeah, I s’pose. Night Nicko.”

“Night Marky.” He doesn’t bother to avoid the hug that’s launched at him, smiling anyway as he allows his arms to circle Nicky. It feels cold, though, like there’s still distance there that shouldn’t be, and as Nicky claps his back with one hand, Mark gasps, feeling sudden pain that doesn’t blind him as much as it normally should.

“You alright?” Mark doesn’t nod.

“Too much dessert.” He laughs at himself, because Nicky does.

“Greedy bastard.”

Mark smirks, chuckles a little, turning already back to his original destination. “Yep. Sleep tight blondie.”

“Fuck off.”

“I fucking am, aren’t I?” Mark can almost hear Nicky’s smile, and smiles to himself, shaking his head as he unlocks the door and pushes it open, just spotting Nicky out of his corner of the eye. He’s hardly moved, is standing just where Mark left him, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Mark’s back. Mark shivers as he feels the gaze caress him. But then something changes. It’s... studying him. Boring straight through his shirt, and he can fucking _feel_ it, as if it’s scouring his nerves for something. Searching.

“What?” He looks back, the doorframe splitting his vision between the outside and inside of his room. Between Nicky and. And. Nothing, nothing at all, and he wonders if Nicky can maybe see it too.

“Nothing.” Nicky’s stare seems to freeze, but then Mark blinks and it’s moving again. Moving off and away, and then Nicky is just gone. Disappeared into his room, and it feels like he’s taken something. Stolen something... important. Like he’s raped the inside of Mark’s head and taken something with him that Mark didn’t intend for anybody, because it’s fucking _his_ and...

He hears the door shut behind him, and shakes his head as the haze dissipates, clarity returning as his eyes fix on the darkened room before him.

“Go away, Nicholas.” He murmurs to himself, not quelling the giggle that bubbles up and over his lips and floods into the silence of the room. He catches a spectre in the corner of the room, and for a moment intends to jump before realising it’s him, just him in the mirror. Teeth bared in a grin that borders on maniacal, and he widens it, his laugh matching the smile as he drops to his knees and unzips his suitcase, tossing aside clothes, not caring where they land. A trainer hitting the door with an unheeded thump, a baseball cap landing neatly on a lamp, before falling off again. Socks and shirts and jeans, tossing it all aside until he reaches the bottom and there it is. There it just fucking is.

He lifts the box from the bottom of his suitcase, with the closest thing to reverence he could ever spare for anything other than Kian, and runs his hand once over the surface, feeling smooth wood stroke his palm. Touches onto the clasps, feeling them spring open with the great ease of practice and intent. The metal stings coolly at his fingers, and he grins again, the previous smile having collapsed with anticipation.

“You don’t understand.” He mutters to himself, his fingers running gently over his instruments. They’ve become as much a necessity to his life now as a microphone, and he’s not sure which creates the greater euphoria. “You don’t understand.” He murmurs again. “Wouldn’t get it. Couldn’t...” Shakes his head as he realises the first sign of insanity is talking to yourself.

Standing, he carries the box to the bed, and sets it down, picking up his most recent favourite. The blade is thin. Almost invisible. But sharp. Oh god is it ever. Like cheese-wire, and tremendously useful. It goes deep, pushes right through and exorcises everything he can’t reach himself. He smiles, tugging his shirt off with one hand, his other hand melded to the handle.

The shirt comes off awkwardly, and he steps forward for inspection, his own self staring back at him in the mirror, frowning as it sees everything it hasn’t managed.

“You’re fucking useless.” He watches the lips move, the blade grasped in its hand looking back at him, glinting in anger as it realises all the work that has to be done. There’s so much left there, it tells him as he runs his palm across the still-healing scars, a good three months work. But not enough. Not yet. The spiral above his left nipple is fading fast, and the triangle cut around his bellybutton wasn’t as real as the others. It’s not enough. He’s still letting it all in. Letting it drown him like a fucking rat.

“Fucking rat.” His reflection scowls, and he nods back solemnly.

Nicky is taking him faster than he can think, picking through the layers and it’s only a matter of time. Nicky can’t see this. This is _his_. Just his, and _nobody_ can see it. He fucking _feels_ alright? He lets everyone down because he’s too much of a fucking wimp to suck it up and take it like everyone else. And this shows it. He’s trying not to let them down. Let Kian down. Because Kian... Kian doesn’t love him. Will never love him. Nobody will ever love him, because he’s fucking useless. And he’s trying not to be. He’s trying to stop. But Kian’s so much stronger, and Kian doesn’t care anymore, and Kian’s stopped feeling.

“Fucking do it.”

Mark nods, complying because he knows there’s no other way. This has to be done.

He picks a space. His left hip this time because there’s nothing else there, and places the blade there, not flinching away. The bone is angular, and he strokes it experimentally, the blade drawing little white trails where it touches, peeking through into the reality he knows will provide clarity on this one. Enough clarity for him to understand it, and just fucking do what he’s told without worrying that this is it.

“Fucking do...”

His reflection is cut off mid-sentence and he bites down on his lip to stop the scream of triumph, the pain there making it all the sweeter. There’s colour now. Red, but more than that, oozing from where he’s pushed the knife. Or just a handle now, because that’s all he can see. The blade having disappeared with a sickly beautiful _phnick_ , deep into him.

“Carve. It. Out.” His reflection spits, its mouth drawing back to reveal more dark wetness as a crimson tongue flicks over its lips, the scarlet from his bitten lip speckling over his chin and he snarls, his teeth stained red.

He tugs the blade along his hip, not feeling it move more than a millimetre as his lips open in a silent cry. His eyes shut, and then there’s just emptiness, and he hears his own mind scream enough that it stifles everything else.

He yanks it back out, gasping as it drags along every nerve ending, a towel clamped over it immediately. He’s gotten into the habit of leaving towels around. They always prove useful, and he prides himself on being much more pragmatic than he used to be. The blood blooms, soaking a little through the towel. But then it stops, and he wonders if his mind’s playing tricks on him when he sees it abate just the tiniest bit.

“III... can’t....SEE... it...” The macabre singsong washes over him and he yanks the towel away, jerking the tip of the blade sideways across the surface of the wound, tearing the deep spot apart and gritting his teeth in case he cries out when it goes black. But... not black enough. Not like it normally does. It’s been getting less and less, and he doesn’t like that because he’s still feeling more and more and he fucking _needs_ this.

“Wimp.” It growls at him, and he jerks the blade again, scratching all the way to his navel when it slips, tearing through half a dozen old scars, and a dozen new ones. That diamond. The square. The K. The I. The A. Missing the N but carving through the cross above it. And he sees it all, albeit a little blankly. And he doesn’t want to.

“Harder!”

“I... I’m sorry.” He whimpers. Drags from his navel and up maybe an inch and a half, and then back down, and then back up, and then back down, etching it deeper and carving it out bit by bit and cursing the slivers that are escaping him.

“Get him the fuck out!”

“Ye... yes.”

He tries, really he does, feeling it glaring at him all the time. But he feels a little dizzy now, and when he looks down he’s bathed in blood, covering up all his hard work. He’s swimming in it, held under and it’s swelling all around him, the current pushing him under and he can’t fucking breathe. Can’t see where he’s going.

Where’s the fucking towel?

A quick grope and he finds it, trying to hold it over as much of the blood as possible, sopping it up like the burst pipe behind their toilet when he was fourteen. Soaking it up, and gasping when it sticks and rips the congealed blood from his skin but doesn’t blind him. This worked yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that. What’s he doing wrong? He’s always doing something wrong.

Shaking his head, he blots it further, putting the blade back in the box as he soaks up the blood and begins to head for the bathroom. But it’s not right. He can’t clean up before he’s done his job. It’s not right. He’ll let everyone down and it’s not fair on them.

“Ma-ark...” It’s followed him into the bathroom and he looks up into the mirror.

“Wh... what do I do?"

Its eyebrow lifts superciliously, the steel-blue beneath flashing as the other eye closes against the sweat dripping into it.

“You don’t know?”

Nodding, he lifts the towel away, biting into the corner of it so he doesn’t scream.

He knows.

He doesn’t look where he’s putting his hand. Feels it press palm-down against his stomach. Doesn’t watch as he digs his fingernails deep into the flesh beneath. Gripping. And when he yanks his hand sideways he couldn’t see it if he wanted to.

Couldn’t see anything.

 

*

 

A sharp rap wakes him from a fitful slumber, and he props himself awkwardly on his elbows, blinking around in confusion. There’s another rap, like wood against metal, and he sighs in understanding when he sees the door shake a little.

“Mark! Get up!”

“Coming!” He yells back, looking guiltily down at the sheet tangling his body as he picks sleep from the corner of his left eye. “Five minutes!”

“Three!” Jake replies, and Mark listens to footsteps stomp heartily towards the lifts. Lifting the sheet back, he looks down at the clean white bandages wrapped around his middle, done with the precision of great practice. Experimentally he prods them, as if to prove they’re really there, and feels the dull pang of deep fingernail scratches beneath. There’s a slight dot of blood soaked through above his right hip, but nothing else, and he smiles, crawling clumsily out of bed, the fog of sleep making his limbs feel thick and heavy.

“Good job.” He murmurs to his reflection as he fixes his hair minutes later, watching it smile back at him. His hair is neat, eyes bright, clothes stylish. He looks the same as he does every day. The same as he should. The same as all the others. There aren’t even any dark rings under his eyes, no telltale signs of a hangover, which he doesn’t even have for once in his life. He winks at himself, putting his sunglasses on and running his fingers through his gelled hair once more for good measure as he heads for the door.

“Ooph!” Is the first word passing his lips as he leaves his room, and he realises he’s got no air left in his lungs as the solid weight that’s collided with him doubles over.

“Shit!” Is the deliciously sexy reply, and Mark wheezes a gasp as he steps back to look at Kian, who grimaces. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Mark laughs, mostly because he’s just seen Kian’s eyes twinkle. “You late too?”

“Had to sneak… erm… James… Justin… something… out the fire escape so the press wouldn’t see.” Kian explains, and suddenly Mark realises exactly why Kian looks so chipper this early in the morning. The grin, the eye-twinkle, the confident swagger – the boy is very well fucked.

“Ah.” He says simply, unable to say more as his throat suddenly takes it upon itself to close up. He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the blockage, but it doesn’t seem to want to work, just pushes it deeper as Kian stretches his arms above his head, sighing languorously.

“You should’ve come last night. You need a shag, mate. It’s been ages.”

“I was tired.”

“So?” Mark snorts a laugh, his body leaning traitorously closer as Kian wraps an arm loosely around his waist.

“So I wanted to sleep.” He reaches out to sling an arm around Kian’s shoulders in return, wincing as the healing cuts in his armpit protest. “I’ll go out tonight.”

“Okay.” Kian shrugs in a way that makes Mark think that it doesn’t really matter either way to him. Why should it? Kian doesn’t care a jot about him. Just wants to go off fucking pretty blonde boys that are willing to sign a confidentially agreement so Westlife won’t have their perfect little image spoiled. It was the same with Nicky, and with him before... well before all this shit. Kian’s right. He hasn’t fucked in months, but the reasons have drastically compounded in recent times.

It’s just too obvious now.

He shakes it off, blocking the thoughts from his mind. He looks good today. Respectable, innocent, sweet, vaguely sexual. All the things that have come to be expected of him through years of careful construction.

And most of all, he doesn’t look like anything he is.


	5. Chapter 5

“Thank god, finally a good single!” Shane sighs, sinking into the chair next to Mark and Nicky’s couch. “I mean, obviously On My Shoulder would’ve been better, but Obvious is still class. Obviously.” He grins triumphantly around at them all, and for a minute Mark considers trying to laugh for his friend’s benefit, but then gives up.

“At least it’s not fucking Mandy.” Bryan pipes up, to agreement from the others. “I swear if there was one song that made me want to fuck off out of here...”

“I know.” Kian groans. “But it’s better now at least. And at least the B-side was good.”

“But nobody fucking hears the B-sides do they!” Bryan retorts. “It’s not the fucking B-side that won record of the year, was it? And who in their right fucking minds voted for it? Hey Whatever should’ve gone number one, not that piece of shit!”

“Calm down, babe.” Shane sighs, patting his shoulder. “It’s over now. People will forget about it soon.”

“Yeah.” Bryan breathes, allowing his head to be guided onto Shane’s shoulder with a smile. “Yeah, I know. Thank god.”

“Celebratory drink then?” Nicky suggests, and Mark smirks. Any excuse.

“Fuck yes.” Bryan’s already up and away to the minibar, and for a moment Mark spares a thought for the amount of booze Bryan’s been putting away recently. Much more than he used to, as far as Mark can tell, but he dismisses it from his mind almost immediately. Bryan’s a respons... well, a grown-up anyway. It’s his decision.

“Marky...” Mark sips immediately at the champagne pressed into his hand. He’s not really a fan of champagne, but it is a celebration, so drinking it is almost a necessity. “Shaney. Nicky.” Bry passes them around.

“Call me Kiany and I’ll kill you.”

“Kiany.” Bryan grins, deflecting Kian’s glare. “And Bryany. Drink up lads. Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Mark raises his flute a little, although the effect is ruined slightly seeing he’s already drunk a quarter of it while Bryan was handing out the others. Still, nobody seems to have noticed, although his personal stalker probably has and is just choosing to say nothing. And when he turns, sure enough Nicky’s staring at him unblinkingly, although he does have the decency to avert his eyes after a few long moments. Mark shrugs, turning back when Shane flicks on the television and starts to scroll through the in-house movies.

“Charlie’s Angels 2?”

“Fuck no!” It’s Bryan, and Mark smirks.

“Harry Potter?” A long silence says all Shane needs to know, and Mark smirks again.

“Lord Of The Rings? Butterfly Effect? Along Came Polly? Peter Pan?”

“Give me the fucking remote.” Kian snatches it away, and begins to scroll through, finally settling on some suitably macho action flick with fast cars, explosions, and martial arts, that is thankfully not Charlie’s Angels. “Right, this’ll do.” He presses the button and drops the remote onto the couch next to him, reaching for the bottle so he can top up his glass. When that’s done he leans back next to Mark, making Mark go embarrassingly warm and tingly.

“More drink?”

Mark nods.

“Thanks Kino.”

Kian tops up the glass, passing the bottle down to Bryan, who’s already finished his first one. Kian’s arm brushes his chest as he passes it over and Mark has to suck in a breath as the tangible scent washes over his skin, blossoming over his face and up into his head, tendrils curling and tightening around his brain and making his eyes burn with heat.

It’s a collective cheer a few minutes later as a car explodes into an enormous fireball that makes Mark blink himself out of his reverie and join in. But Kian’s shoulder is still pressed against his and it’s, Christ, so wrong that the only thing he wants to do is throw him to the floor in front of the others, in front of _Nicky_ , and fuck him hard enough to leave bruises, so that everybody will see exactly who Kian belongs to. So that _nobody_ will _ever_ touch Kian again. Make Kian come so hard he’ll never want to be anywhere else, tight heat milking Mark’s cock until he blacks out, until he can’t feel a fucking goddamn thing. Nothing at all, just...

Tingly spider-claws over his arm make Mark jump, going to brush it away before he realises that his hand’s already there, nails tracing the tiny prickly trails that he only just noticed, goosebumps spreading down to his hands and all the way up to his neck, down to his _toes_ when he stops, as if in protest. But there can’t be protest because he never even felt it happen. Never enjoyed it or...

Warmth. Shit. Kian.

“Mark?”

Kian, god... Fuck me. Please.

“Mark?”

“Yeah?”

“Pass us the crisps?”

“Yeah.” He nods, taking the bowl that Nicky hands him and dropping it down into Kian’s hand, brusquely so that their fingers don’t even touch. Normally he’d make sure they touched, but not right now. He’s almost over the edge as it is.

“Going to the loo.”

It’s either that or embarrass himself, although he’s already totally embarrassed. It’s like a fucking _tent_. How could they not notice? Nicky... not even Nicky’s noticed. And definitely not Kian. Why would Kian give a shit?

The door is only just not slammed as Mark shuts himself, panting, in the bathroom, his face burning and his eyes stinging. With lust, he tells himself. He just needs to get off and then he can go back. It’s a tear of lust that’s trickled down his cheek; hormones or something, not anything else. Not...

He’s not even realised his shorts are tugged open until the agony of restraint disappears into the scorchingly cool air, a shudder raking through his body when he hears Kian laugh out loud. No other tears slip out and he nods gratefully as his grip alights and tightens, making him want to cry out in agony, the touch too much to bear on over-sensitized flesh. But bear it he does, closing his eyes and running his spare hand over his face as he begins to pump, hearing Kian laugh somewhere so far away in the distance that he’s not sure he can find his way back. And Christ, this feels too fucking much. It’s the ultimate sensory overload, next to pain, and the fact that it’s next to pain makes him let out a sharp sob, ripped from his lips before he can get a grip on whatever hormones his fucked up, revolting body is deciding to pump out today.

He doesn’t realise his hand’s tracing his navel before it’s there, digging sharply into the deep groove above that’s nowhere near healing yet. God, pain, ripping straight into his soul.

He comes.

It’s that quick too, feels like minutes ago now that’s it’s really over, and the post orgasm sensitivity is nothing compared to the not-feeling of fingers digging deep into his stomach and the wet roll of salty tears down his chin as he sinks along with it, collapsed onto the cold tiles like a sack of soft clay. Cold and wet and soaking into the edge of his t-shirt where it lands near the drain, shorts still tangled around his knees in a way that would be embarrassing if he were aware of it, and he sees it all from somewhere that’s not his eyes, somewhere very far away because his eyes are too busy at the moment.

It takes a lot of effort to see nothing.

“Mark?”

He’s shivering, he feels that as he sits up, and wonders why his head hurts, and why his skin feels damp and clammy, and why his clothes are sticking to him like a second skin.

“Mark?”

“What, Bry?” It comes out as a raspy croak, but Mark’s sure he can blame it on the acoustics.

“Hurry up, I need the loo!” There’s a beat, and Mark hears an explosion and laughter. “You’ve been ages in there. You alright?”

“Fine!” He shakes his head, yanking his shorts up as far as he can without actually standing, his legs feeling too much like jelly just yet. “Fine.” He murmurs to himself, shaking his head. “I’m fine. I’m...”

Wet.

His shirt is sticking to him, moulding to his skin, and for a moment he thinks that Nicky would probably enjoy that. But at the same time it’s sticking to a multitude of half-healed cuts and scabs, and they don’t half hurt. They’re agony, to put it simply, and it’s not fun when Bryan’s bashing at the door again.

“Just a second!”

“What are you doing in there?”

“I...” Mark shakes his head, looking down at himself. He’s soaking wet, blood’s starting to seep onto the floor, his face is covered in tears, and he’s shivering, which really doesn’t feel like it’s about to abate anytime soon. There’s no way he’s going to cover this. No way. Bryan’s waiting at the fucking door, for Christ’s sakes.

“I’m not feeling great.”

Silence.

“What do you mean?”

“I just... I’m not feeling so good.”

“Do you want a hand?”

Mark nods to himself. It’s best to do it this way. Just pretend that he’s feeling dizzy and can’t go back out under his own steam. It explains why he’s sitting on the wet tiles, and the water’s already washing the blood down the drain so there’s no problem there. Realising he’s still got his shorts and boxers down, he yanks them back up, reaching out to unlock the door with the hand that isn’t buttoning himself up.

“Yeah.”

The door opens a little, and Mark partly expects Nicky’s head to pop in under Bryan’s. But it doesn’t. Bryan just shimmies his way in, surprisingly gracefully, and shuts the door quietly behind him, his gaze fixing curiously on Mark as the older boy crouches down in front of him.

“Hey, you okay?”

“Feel dizzy.”

“Okay...” Bryan’s hand is burning hot when it presses to Mark’s forehead, but vaguely comforting. “Nicky wanted to come in, but I didn’t think you’d want that right now.” Bryan says after a moment, and Mark’s blinks back, wondering how he knew. Everyone else seems to think they should be shagging like rabbits. “I thought you might need a break.” Bryan adds with a gentle smile. “How’d you get so wet?”

“I… I sort of fell.”

“Can you walk?”

Mark shakes his head, but then the world starts to spin and he stops, shutting his eyes to stop the floor from rippling. “Shit.”

“You eaten much today?”

“I... don’t know.” And he really doesn’t. He remembers having apple pie, but he’s pretty sure that was yesterday... ish. Maybe. Did he have ice-cream with it? He usually likes ice-cream with apple pie. He opens his eyes again. “I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Bryan’s frowning now, and Mark shakes his head, forgetting that it makes him dizzy. “Come on.”

The world’s spinning again and Mark feels like he’s flying through the air and then he just... stops, falling onto something sturdy that just might be Bryan’s shoulder. His feet are dragging as Bryan starts to move, probably slowly, but Mark can’t keep his footing anyway and he almost stumbles, saved only by Bryan’s arm coming around his waist.

“You alright?”

He’s not. He’s really not.

He nods.

“You’re getting too skinny.”

Mark shrugs. There’s no way to answer that without sounding like he’s lying. Even though he’s not, obviously. He’s just lost a little weight from touring. Dancing and all that crap. He looks better than he has in ages, really.

“Marky?”

“He’s fine, Nix.”

“...Okay.”

How they make it down the hall to Mark’s room he’s not sure he’ll ever know. But suddenly he’s lying down and he can finally breathe again, and the ceiling’s not rotating above his head, which has to be a good thing.

“You’re soaked. Let’s get these clothes off.”

“No!” Mark only registers what Bryan’s just said as his hands begin to grapple with the bottom of Mark’s top. Bryan’s getting too close to figuring it out, he knows too much already. He can’t let him... “No, just... get me my pyjamas and I’ll...”

“Okay.” Surprisingly, Bryan doesn’t question it, just heads straight over to Mark’s suitcase and pulls the pyjamas from the top, only an inch or two above the smooth wooden box Mark knows is pressed into the bottom. The pyjamas are tossed on the bed and Bryan gestures to the bathroom door. “I’ll just go to the loo, and then I’ll be back, yeah?”

“Yeah.” The door clicks shut and then Mark’s up and vaulting for his suitcase, refusing to let the persistent dizziness hinder him. The bandages are in his hand straight away, and he yanks his shirt off, using it to mop up the excess blood before slamming the bandages over the top, wrapping them around and knotting at the back, in too much of a rush to do this neatly. The pyjama shirt is buttoned around him straight away, and he hears the toilet flush as he finally kicks his jeans off, leaping back into bed to put on his pyjama bottoms under the covers.

“You done?” Bryan comes out shielding his eyes, jokingly probably, and Mark grins, doing up the drawstring and bringing his hands back out to straighten the duvet, feeling the knot of the bandages dig uncomfortably into his back.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” Bryan crosses the floor and sits down, hopefully not noticing the rapid rise and fall of Mark’s chest as he pants away the recent exertions. “Now, what’s wrong?”

“Huh?” His chest starts to move faster, if that’s possible.

“Oh come on, Mark.” Bryan rolls his eyes. “You’ve been acting weird for weeks.” Mark blinks back, trying to look blank, and Bryan sighs. “Look, you can tell me. I won’t even tell Shane. Just... what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Mark...”

“There’s nothing wrong.” Mark’s voice comes out a little high-pitched, almost panicky, and he coughs to hide it. “I’m just tired, I think.” He adds. “And I’ve been feeling a bit off since yesterday. Maybe it was something I ate.”

“But you haven’t eaten anything.”

“Course I have.” He replies, studiously straightening out the duvet until it’s perfectly flat. “There was that apple pie yesterday, remember? With the icecream?”

Bryan’s face twists in confusion, and Mark thinks maybe he’s messed this up. Maybe there was no apple pie. But why wouldn’t there be if he remembers it? Of course there was apple pie, and if Bryan doesn’t think so, he must’ve forgotten.

“You had apple pie yesterday? Why didn’t I get any?”

“Dunno. Your loss, though. It was really good.” It had to be. He does love apple pie, after all.

“Okay, well.” Bryan rests his chin in his palm, scratching at his cheek thoughtfully with the tips of his fingers. “Well, even so, there’s something up. You’ve been really quiet and you haven’t even been out with us the last few nights. You never miss out, usually, in case it’s a top night.”

“I’ve been sick.” Mark rolls his eyes. Maybe if he pisses Bryan off, he’ll just go away. “God, Bryan. Do you have to interrogate me now? I just want to sleep. Maybe I’m just not well. Maybe I’m just tired. _Maybe_ I just want to have a break and go home. Is that too fucking hard to understand?”

And maybe he just wants Kian.

Bryan sighs, lifting his gaze to the ceiling before he nods cautiously. “Okay.” He says after a moment. “Look, do you mind if I stay here then? That movie’s totally shite.”

“You have such a way with words.” Mark jokes half-heartedly, making Bryan shrug with a little indulgent smile. That shouldn’t be too bad, should it? Bryan staying? He’ll go back to his and Shane’s room when the film’s finished anyway, probably to have very loud sex like they do every night. It’ll not be more than an hour, surely, and it’s not as if Bryan’s going to secretly peek under his shirt while he’s asleep.

“Go on then.” He says finally, turning on his side and tugging the blanket up to his chin. “You mind turning the telly on? I...”

“Can’t sleep without it?” Bryan finishes, making Mark nod and smile into his pillow. He can’t believe he’s that predictable. Bryan reaches over to ruffle his hair. “You’re an odd one, Feehily.” He smirks, reaching for the remote and turning the television over to some obscure music channel, surprisingly holding the volume button until it’s just at the level Mark likes it. “This alright?”

“Perfect.” Mark yawns, burying his face in his pillow. “Night Bry. See you in the morning.”

“Night weirdo.” Bryan replies, and Mark floats off to sleep to the all too familiar sound of one of his best friends’ quiet breathing.

 

*

 

Waking up and almost scaring yourself stupid is not a good idea, Mark realises. It’s like it throws your entire waking up ritual out of whack. Every morning he does exactly the same thing. First he wakes up, all on his own seeing as he conveniently hasn’t slept in a room with any of the others for two months, then he opens his eyes after a bit. Next he props himself up on his elbows and lifts back the covers, then unbuttons his shirt carefully to look at the progress of last nights doings. After that he sits up properly, glancing around to prolong the inevitable horror of actually getting out of bed. When he finally does, a few procrastinating minutes later, he stumbles to the bathroom to wash away the tears, dirt, grease, and leftover blood, striding back out when he’s done to fix his hair until it’s perfect, and dress neatly, in the baggy jeans and t-shirt that have become his uniform. Nobody expects him to wear anything tight, not after all this time, so he doesn’t. It would only raise questions.

So then it’s a massive shock when he doesn’t wake on his own.

There’s nobody in his bed, of course. Nothing like that. He can’t remember the last time there was somebody in his bed. But there is somebody in the other bed, curled up on top of the blankets, head half on the pillow that’s almost hanging off the side of the mattress. There’s blond hair tangled in every direction, and there are loud snores coming from the still form that Mark _really_ didn’t expect to be there.

“Fucking hell, Bryan!”

“Wha...?” Bryan sits up with a start, blinking about in confusion before his eyes settle on a closely watching Mark, and he sighs. “Shit, Mark, don’t scare me like that.”

“Same to you. Why the hell are you still here?”

You were supposed to go back after an hour. You were _supposed_ to.

“Must’ve fallen asleep.” Bryan yawns, lying back down and burying his face in the pillow. “Sorry.”

“That’s... that’s okay.” He falters, realising that making too big a deal of this will only raise questions. He shrugs, stretching in bed, and then shuts his eyes again. Maybe now that Bryan’s awake, he’ll go back to his own room. Shane’s probably missing him or something.

“Oh well. It’s only four in the morning. I’m going back to sleep.”

“Won’t Shane be missing you?”

“Nah, he’d probably just be pissed off if I woke him up.” Bryan yawns, making Mark yawn too. After all, yawns _are_ infectious. “Night.”

“Night.” Mark shuts his eyes, listening carefully as Bryan’s breathing slows and evens out, joined only a few minutes later by tiny little snores that slowly begin to grow in volume. Mark wonders if he snores too. He’s heard that smokers usually do, more than anyone else anyway. Something to do with burning out the mucus filters in your throat or something.

God, he needs a cigarette.

Slipping carefully out of bed, he pads over to the balcony, opening and closing the door as silently as he knows how. It probably wouldn’t matter though, Bryan could sleep through anything. He could bring a fucking marching band in here and Bry’d probably just bury his head under the pillow and mumble something about turning the radio off. If that.

He collapses into one of the wicker chairs, opening up the packet of cigarettes he collected on his way to the door and lighting one carefully, his hands awkward and heavy with sleep. When it finally is lit, he takes a long drag, pausing to relish the feeling of bitter smoke filling his lungs, the slight residual cough clearing his throat after a restless night. A few more puffs later, he relaxes back in the chair, looking thoughtfully at the slowly burning paper in his hand.

It’s almost light now, the sun rising over the buildings surrounding him, rays slanting and burning along deserted streets that not five hours ago were probably jammed with cars. It’s really odd, like he’s only the only person in the whole world.

What would happen, he thinks, if he was the only person in the whole world? Well, for one, he wouldn’t have much of a job. But then he wouldn’t really need one either, would he? He wouldn’t need money, he could just sing whenever he felt like it, although the others tend to assert that he does anyway, and it’s bloody annoying too. The others... they wouldn’t be here. Kian, Nicky, Bryan, Shane. None of ‘em. No Kian to not love him. No Nicky to annoy him. No one to even make him feel. He wouldn’t even have to feel, not if he was the only person in the world. There’d be nothing to make him feel. But it would probably get lonely and boring and... well, realistically he’d probably just end up taking a gun from the nearest empty store and blowing his brains out, because it’d be better than the loneliness. It’s macabre, sure. But it’s the truth.

Unbuttoning his shirt with his free hand, he looks down, putting the cigarette gently between his lips so he can open it with both hands, looking at the flesh bared before him. It’s kinda itchy when he shifts, the healing scars stretching and pulling, but it doesn’t really hurt all that much. He shrugs, poking experimentally at the one from last night, the deep groove there, and his face flushes as he remembers what he was doing when that happened. God. He couldn’t have looked like any more of a fuckwit if he tried. And how’s he going to explain it? Food poisoning? From what? The apple pie he’s pretty fucking certain he had? Sunstroke? He hasn’t been out in the sun in weeks.

He’s fucking this up so badly. God, he can’t even keep a simple thing like this hidden.

He’s pathetic. Useless. No fucking use to the whole world. Nobody wants him. Nobody needs him. There’s nothing worthwhile here. Nothing.

He’s so fucking lonely.

Taking a final drag on his cigarette, he stubs it out in the well-worn hotel ashtray on the well-worn hotel balcony table, watching the smoke rise up from the butt. He blinks at it for a second, and then turns, putting both hands gently on the railing as he steps closer. Looks down.

There’s still no cars, although he can hear a few in the distance. The sun’s burning down now, a huge ball of fire making him narrow his eyes against the burning light, warming his face. Sunstroke indeed.

There’s the sound of a car backfiring, and the calls of the prostitutes on the far corner, their numbers beginning to dwindle as they turn in for the night. A dog barks. The air shimmers off the already burning road, warming his face and skewing the light.

He’s on the eleventh floor. Not the highest he’s ever been, but the lowest they could get. Pandering to Bryan’s fear of heights and Nicky’s fear of lifts, although Nicky’s already informed them all very shrilly that he’s ‘not going up in that wretched thing’, and then prayed very quietly into Mark’s chest when they finally forced him too. Bryan’s not going out on the balconies. He refuses to.

Mark’s never had a problem with heights. Quite likes them actually. They make him feel like he’s flying, or something silly like that. Nobody else does, but he shuts his eyes sometimes when he’s on them, the feeling of falling not scaring him, but making him feel free. Like he’s just floating in this big empty space.

He does it now, stepping closer to the edge, his hands leaving the railing shakily and coming to rest, trembling near his hips as he begins to raise them higher, lifting them out to the side, fingers uncurling and spreading out. Stretching. As far as they can go. The warm breeze brushing his face as he lets himself drop into the absolute nothingness. His body rushing down, stomach rushing up, everything just falling out of place as he stands there, still, fingers riding the gentle currents, the blackness only broken by the still-burning shafts of light trickling over the burgeoning clouds. But he can’t see them when he shuts his eyes tighter. Just flying.

A car horn honks, and his eyes snap open again as it all rushes back, and he feels his fingers become wet, and looks at them in surprise, seeing deep fingernail-shaped furrows that shouldn’t be there because he was _flying_ goddammit. Fingers stretched out, not stuck into his palms, oozing blood everywhere. He was flying. He was... sure of it.

He digs them in again, walking back into the room, nails almost glued into his flesh, goes to the bathroom. Locks the door.

And tears four deep furrows across his thigh with a razor blade.


	6. Chapter 6

Ehm... Mark?”

Mark rubs his eyes, peering at the huddled figure stood in his doorway. He blinks, yawning, and then looks again, foggy eyes finally clearing.

“Hi. Sorry. Thought you might be awake. It’s okay, I’ll just go.”

Mark yawns again, shaking his head, hand covering his mouth and holding in his rancid sleep-breath, feeling it wash his tongue. “Nah. Come in.” He shrugs, holding open the door so Nicky can pass, the smaller boy’s body brushing his chest not-quite accidentally. If he’s honest, he could use a bit of company. He hasn’t been sleeping properly, again, and he’s sure if he goes back to sleep he’ll just dream again.

God, it’s been a while since he’s had a good dream. A non-descript, average one, even. But no, he’s stuck with these horrible nightmares that, when he can remember them, he wishes he hadn’t. And when he can’t it’s just as bad, this sharp, suffocating feeling of dread pricking at his skin and tightening his heart as he wakes up gasping, sitting bolt upright in bed, tears streaming down his cheeks and staining the sheets. Once he woke up spitting. Hocking into the pillow, trying to get something out of his mouth that he can’t remember. Once he woke up screaming, this tortured, horrible wail that echoed in his ears hours later. Once, he woke up bleeding, where he’d ripped open an old incision on his thigh, fingers stained with blood and shredded nails ragged with torn flesh where he’d been scrabbling into the wound, searching for something. He was bleeding everywhere, the pain not even waking him up, and he wonders, if the nightmares hadn’t woken him, if he would have hit bone and artery before waking.

He shivers, the cold suddenly stark against his bare hands and feet. His hair is mussed in every direction, he sees it in the mirror on the back of the bathroom door, and he runs a hand through it, shrugging to himself when it just bounces back into its original position. But then, it’s not like Nicky’s is much better. The only difference is that Mark is wearing clothes instead of pyjamas. He fell asleep in them.

“Are you sure it’s okay if I...”

“Yeah.” Mark yawns, taking in Nicky’s red, tired eyes, and rumpled pyjamas. “I’ve been drifting in and out. How bout you?”

“Uh... the same. Thought I’d come by and see what you were doing. It’s better than lying in bed, listening to Kian snore.”

Mark nods, heading habitually for the minibar. It’s an action ingrained in him now. He almost laughs at the thought. “Drink?”

“Oh... beer?”

Mark nods, tossing one to Nicky, who’s sat on the bed, and opens his own, the light blinking out when the fridge door shuts with a _clonk_. He shakes his head, the glow still burning in front of his eyes, and takes a sip, coughing a little as the bubbles fizz up the back of his throat and into his nose. Obviously his body and mind haven’t caught up with each other yet.

“I thought you were awake, actually. I could hear noises. Thought maybe you had the telly on.” Nicky shrugs, taking another swallow of his drink. “Must’ve been hearing Shane and Bry. Those two never bloody let up.”

“You’ve got to admire them though. Great stamina.”

“True.” Nicky laughs, resting his drink on his knee. “You got any peanuts?”

“If you wanted a bar, why didn’t you go downstairs?” Mark snorts, dutifully taking out a bag of peanuts and tossing it towards the blonde.

“Company’s better here.” Turning back, he notices the shark-smile on Nicky’s face, and the tang of freshly-brushed teeth souring his nostrils. And the fact that Nicky’s pyjamas have been washed. And the fact that Nicky’s hair is looking more neatly and methodically rumpled than Mark originally thought.

“I doubt it.” He replies, smiling weakly and dropping back onto the bed, stealing a peanut from the bag Nicky’s opened and is devouring. “Are we having one of those horribly early mornings tomorrow?” He changes the subject, hiding his face in his beer can.

“No, thank god. Day off!” Nicky cheers, making Mark laugh, although he’s not sure how he’s forgotten. A day _off_ , Mark? Something to remember and celebrate, file away in your memory and count down until? How can you bloody well forget that?

“It’s probably for the best, really.” Nicky continues. “Negates the fact that we’re sitting up at two in the morning, drinking.”

“We’d do that anyway.”

Nicky shrugs. “Well.”

“Well.” Mark echoes, putting his can on the floor and leaning back on his elbows, looking across the room at the blank TV. Nicky’s smiling, he knows it. Pouting. Smirking. That weird grin Nicky does, whatever you want to call it. That irresistibly flirty, crooked smile that basically screams ‘come hither and fuck me now’. That one.

As opposed to Kian, of course. Mark sometimes wonders how the top of his head just doesn’t flip off, with the width of his grin. It’s like it’s on hinges or something. There’s teeth _everywhere_ , and lips, and tongue, and Mark just wants to run his own tongue along _all_ of it.

“Marky?”

“Mmm...?” Mark looks up, eyes clearing when Nicky smiles tentatively at him.

“You went quiet.”

Mark yawns, sitting up and getting his drink again. “Sorry. Tired. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

Mark shrugs around another long swallow, fingers tensing slightly on the cold aluminium, condensation trickling and tickling over his fingers, making him shiver. He coughs slightly. Scratches his knee. Licks the runoff from the lip of the can. Looks at the carpet. Then looks at Nicky.

“Nothing. Whatever.”

“Kay.”

“Mmm.” Reaching for the remote, he flicks the television on, stabbing at the volume button when it comes on _way_ too loud, making them both jump. Finally it’s at a reasonable level, and Mark looks around furtively, as if he’s expecting the entire population of the hotel to all pop their heads around the doorframe and berate him for waking them up. He shakes his head. Idiot.

Flicking through the channels, he finds the bright colours mesmerizing as they stagger past, although none is worth another glance. Advert, cooking show, advert, advert, home shopping, a young woman shouting in Spanish, advert, advert, Dr Who repeat, soft-core porn, advert, Planet Of The Apes.

He turns it off again and puts the remote down, rolling on his back to look at the ceiling. The mattress rolls when Nicky lies down next to him, and he shrugs at his friend, playing a corner of the sheet between his fingers.

“So Kian’s in your room still?”

“Yeah. Out like a light. I didn’t want to wake him.”

Mark nods, pinching the sheet and then letting go, surreptitiously digging his fingers into the healing cut on his palm instead. Nicky’s gaze is on him again, and he looks up, not liking the intense feeling of hungry eyes on him.

“What?”

“Oh... nothing.” Nicky shakes his head, rolling onto his stomach and propping himself on his elbows. “Nothing. I was just thinking I like your hair like that.”

“What? Like a haystack?”

“No. Well.” Nicky shrugs. “You know. Loose and stuff. Without gel and all that. It’s nice.”

“Um... thanks.” Mark attempts, trying to forget the fact that Nicky’s eyes were nowhere near his hair for most of the time. Crawling all over him instead, like ants swarming. “I... like yours too.”

“Thankyou.” Nicky shifts closer, until their sides are pressed together, Nicky’s breath on his cheek like the fires of hell advancing on him. Warmth and heat, and it seems like Nicky’s feeling it too, but just in a different way, because his breathing’s getting heavier, and Mark can feel him shifting.

Rolling frantically off the bed, Mark just manages to hide the squeak building in his throat. No... no no no no no. No. No, too much, especially when Mark’s this tired and his defences are down. He doesn’t even feel like he can fight back. It’s just too hard. It’s too...

Dashing into the bathroom, Mark slams the door as quietly as possible, pressing his cheek to the mirror to stop the burning in his face. But the glass isn’t as cool as he’d expect, and it makes his cheeks hurt even more, his entire body aching and stinging, like beestings all over, buzzing in his head. It’s just too much to deal with right now, Nicky outside, like some sort of horrible, flesh-eating monster. Like the one in his dreams. Climbing out of the mirror, twisted limbs jerking sporadically, in a strobe-lit, decaying kind of way that’s made him wake up vomiting and crying. Staggering, slithering towards him, blonde hair messed in every direction at once, naked cock swinging beneath a slender, lizard body. Hard, hot, and very very real. Eyes red, the colour of fire and blood, floating in deep, empty, black pools. No teeth, just thin, bile stained lips and a cancerous, deadly looking tongue, flickering into his burning wounds and gouging at flesh, muscle, and bone, digging deeper and deeper. Kissing him, pouring hot spit into his mouth and making it impossible for him to breathe as it weaves down his throat. He sees it sometimes in the mirror. Every day. Nicky’s face. Kian’s face. His face.

Leaning over the toilet, Mark vomits hard, feeling his entire gut turn inside out and drive itself up his throat and out of his mouth. His throat constricting, tearing under the force, and salty hot tears burning his cheeks, slipping into his mouth and making him heave again, trying to purge himself of this horrible... thing, living inside of him. Eating off his insides and grinning out at him through mirrors and glass and his own eyes. He can’t help but see it, leering at him from the mirror above the sink across the bathroom when he turns to look. Tongue smearing its lips with dirty black fluid. Gouging at his stomach, and when he looks down he’s opened up a wound there, the blood so red against his deathly pale skin, staining dark hairs and running out of him.

Shaking his head, he blinks hard, collapsing back against the shower step and putting his head between his knees, tendrils of sick slippering down his chin, strands of hot, slimy mucus, making him dry-heave into his spasming hands. His head hurts, his stomach hurts, everything fucking hurts.

“Mark? You okay?”

“I’m fine!” He yells back, picturing Nicky on the other side, licking his lips hungrily. What’s the time Mr. Wolf? It’s eat-Mark o’clock. “Too tired for alcohol I think.”

“You can never be too tired for alcohol!” Nicky calls back, laughter in his voice. Then he quietens. A deadly, heavy silence. “Are you sick?”

“Yes.” A giggle bubbles over his lips. Yes, he’s sick. He’s very sick.

“Were you sick?”

“Yes.” He cackles back, collapsing sideways on the floor and then crawling forward until he reaches the sink, kneeling up and grabbing his toothbrush from the cup. It’s always in the cup. No-one better have moved it. And the first thing you should do after puking is clean your teeth. Like Nicky has, so your breath is all minty fresh and lovely. Good for kissing. For kissing Kian. So Kian doesn’t hate him.

But Kian already hates him, doesn’t he? He chomps on the too-hard bristles, the toothpaste sliming down his throat and making it convulse. He giggles around it, singing to himself.

“Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, think I’ll go and eat worms...”

“What was that?”

“Nothing! Just cleaning my teeth!”

Silence falls again, and Mark wipes at his tears with one hand, the other hand brushing faster. Up and down, side to side, in and out. Get rid of the plaque. Making it all minty fresh, so Kian doesn’t hate him and will want to kiss him.

Ha to you, Nicky. Cos I wanna kiss Kian and no-one else.

He spits into the basin, watching it dribble down the sink until he turns the tap on full power and blasts it down, the roaring of the water thrumming steadily in his ears. Sounds nice, blocks everything out, and he holds his hand to the open wound on his belly, holding himself in, leaving it there until the bandages are almost around it, and then pulls it away, delighting in the soft _snicker-pop_ it makes as it drags free from his flesh.

“...bite their heads off, suck their guts out, throw their skins away...”

He pats his belly, feeling the bandage itch under his hands, and then pulls his fingers away to lick them clean, the hard, metallic taste of blood jarring his senses and making his teeth itch. Eyes burning with it, throat burning. Head throbbing hard, like his brain’s trying to escape through his forehead.

Wiping his face, he smiles to himself, blinking away the creature sat right in the very corner of the mirror, somewhere he can’t quite see, and when he tries to look at it, it disappears. He grins, teeth bared, and stands up straight and tall, looking the very model of polite society, if he does say so himself.

“You feeling okay?” Nicky says when he comes out again, and Mark shrugs, noncommittal, pleasant, slightly apologetic. He knows very well how it works.

“I’m okay, maybe I’m coming down with something. I’ve been feeling a bit off lately.”

“Aww... why didn’t you tell me? Poor thing.” Nicky’s hand is on his arm, squeezing a little, holding onto him tight, like he’s going to try and run away.

“Didn’t seem like that big a deal.” Mark shrugs, lying back down and watching Nicky come sit next to him, chin rested on his hands, fingers woven together like snakes. “Do you want another drink?”

“Yeah, but I’ll get it.” Nicky replies, getting up and heading for the fridge, leaving Mark watching his arse. It’s a very nice arse, if he’s honest with himself, and he’d quite happily consider the idea of fucking it if Nicky wasn’t one of his best friends, and didn’t have this stupid little crush on him, and if he wasn’t in love with Kian.

God, why couldn’t Nicky get a crush on someone else? It’s just fucking sex. You could do it with _anyone_. Why him? He’s not even that special. In fact, he’s completely useless. Fucked up, and ugly, and fat, and useless to everyone, especially himself. Why did he even bother? Why was he even here?

He yawns, feeling suddenly tired. It’s all too much, weighing down on him, his heart, his stomach, his head, his limbs. Everything feels so heavy and tired. Exhausted. Fatigued, like he hasn’t slept for days. Or weeks. Or years even.

Too long.

“You’re sure you’re feeling okay?” Nicky asks again, and Mark yawns again. He just can’t help it. Christ, he’s tired.

“Yeah... fine. Day off’ll do me good. Probably just...” He yawns again, the corners of his mouth stretching and cracking with the strain. “...exhaustion.” He finishes, curling up slightly, fingers and knees to his chest. Nicky strokes his hair. Mark doesn’t have the energy to slap it away, even though it’s making his skin crawl.

“You poor thing. Do you want to sleep?”

Mark shrugs. “I want to. But it’s not like that’s helped in the last four hours.”

“Well, you lay down alright?” Mark’s reminded inexplicably of a nurse when Nicky pulls back the blankets and helps Mark lie down. Except a nurse doesn’t climb in beside you, so close you can feel yourself breathing against his chest, face to face. Mark’s glad he’s shut his eyes, lest he meet Nicky’s.

“There. Comfy. You just try to sleep, okay? I’ll stay here.”

That’s a contradiction, if ever he heard one.

“Kay.”

“Kay.” Lips press to his forehead, leaving a damp, slimy imprint, like when his aunt kisses him, with all her lipstick on. It makes him shudder, but Nicky just takes it as an excuse to hold him tighter, probably thinking that he’s cold.

Feeling Nicky’s face buried in his neck, Mark is confused. Wasn’t Nicky the one who was supposed to be holding him? But he’s just too exhausted to think about it, is spending too much energy trying to ignore the short, damp little breaths against his throat, making him swallow. Nicky grips onto his waist, small, delicate hands brushing just under his top and making his flesh want to creep away from under them. As it is he shudders, feeling that tongue dipping into his flesh, hot breath on his face. It used to look just like him, that thing in the mirror. Now it doesn’t.

“It’s unfair.”

“What?”

“You’re so warm.” Nicky yawns, burrowing in further. “I wish I was.”

I just bet you fucking do. Mark shakes his head, blinking into the dusky darkness of the room, shards of penetrating light glinting in off the streetlamps, through the curtains, and bouncing off glass, plastic and metal. Into his eyes and blinding him. And it’s then that he realises that Nicky’s very close to the most important thing.

It’s itching against his shirt, how could he not have remembered? It always itches. Badly, like those scratchy wool jumpers his grandmother knits. Something that he can’t quite scratch; not because of the pain, but because it would only make it worse. There’s too many half-healed wounds there. Too many scars.

Lying still, feeling his whole body tense, he tips his head back slightly, trying to get as far from Nicky as possible. His heart’s beating fast, he knows Nicky can probably feel it, hear it, but there’s nothing he can do. He’s frozen, like a statue, the whispered sound of cackled laughter in his head making him want to scream; that tongue, pressing against his skin.

Lips, hair, a gentle brush of a nose. Dampness, and he blinks into the dark in panic, feeling Nicky’s tongue flicker out and touch his throat, just for a second. He can’t move, can’t breathe.

“Ni...”

“Mmm...?” Nicky murmurs huskily, finger already climbing into Mark’s back pockets. Mark feels himself rolled slightly onto his back, and Nicky’s tongue pummelling his throat, making him gasp and wheeze, not sure what to do. Unable to do anything, really, the hot remembered smell of acid making his eyes water and his knees lift slightly.

“I want you. For so long I’ve wanted you.” Nicky moans, growls, whatever the fuck that sound is. Something inhuman, brushing over his neck. “I need...” Mark’s balls are cupped through his pants, and he can almost hear Nicky salivating, drooling. He wants to whimper. Cry. Scream. Something! But nothing comes out and he shuts his eyes, feeling bile rise in his throat, the acid wanting to come out. Tears prick in his eyes and he feels one roll down his cheek, screeching against his skin. Nicky growls.

“You want me, right?”

Mark can’t reply, but Nicky’s unzipping his pants, and he’s too close to the truth. Although Mark thinks he might have known along. Nicky’s been eating at his mind. He knows Mark’s worthless, that he can’t do fucking anything. That he’s feeling... hurt, terrified, miserable, all at once, like a deep pang beneath his ribs. Like an ache that’s never gone away. He wants to cry, rip into his skin, tell himself to stop fucking feeling and let Nicky do whatever he wants, because it’s not as if _he’ll_ ever get what _he_ wants. He’s alone, the only one in the whole fucking world. Except for the monster in his mind.

A long lick rasps up his cock, making the tiniest squeak come out. Think of something, think of anything. Kian, who you’d be betraying right now if Kian even gave a shit. If Kian _ever_ gave a shit. Kian’s never cared. Ever. Mark was just a commodity for Kian’s own success. A nifty tool for his own professional use. And what is he to Nicky? Some one-night stand? Some crush that will go away as soon as Nicky’s realised he’s not worth it? What is he to anyone?

Nothing. Absolutely fucking nothing.

“...Mark?”

His trousers are still open, the cool breeze against his damp flesh breathing over him like a shudder. Nicky’s leaning over him, face pinched, and Mark can taste salt on his lips.

“Oh shit! Are you okay?”

Mark shuts his eyes, feeling a tear tremble in his eyelid and burst free on a harsh sob that runs the length of his body. A hand traces his face and then jerks away, burnt.

“Mark, I... I didn’t mean... I’m sorry I thought... it... I didn’t mean...”

Mark rolls on his side, knees bent to his chest, cock caught against the rough denim and making him want to scream in agony. Burying his face in his hands, another sob breaks free and he tries to hide it. Nicky’s hand touches his shoulder.

“God I’m sorry.” Nicky whimpers. “I really honestly thought that you... you seemed like you were... God.” Nicky’s voice breaks off, cracking. “Shit, I... I should go. I...I’m so sorry, I...”

The door slams behind him, leaving Mark lain out, cold and shaking on his bed. Fingers ghost over his shoulder and he looks up to see no one, save the shadow in the mirror.

“Nice one, Marky.” It gurgles, eyes narrowed at him, although Mark can’t see it. “Good job. Useless brat.”

Mark sobs again, yanking away the bandage on his stomach, finding small cuts and beginning to tug at them, feeling skin pull and tear. One comes free, the scab a coarse sliver between his fingers, and he tugs again, pain shooting up into his brain and making him yelp. When he finds a particular large one, he’s already ready, his face buried in the pillow. When he yanks at it, he has to bite into the cotton to muffle the scream.


	7. Chapter 7

It’s dark, the curtains drawn tightly. It’s been dark in here for the last... however long. Hours. Days. Weeks. Years. Could be years, he wouldn’t know. He doesn’t feel hungry, but then he doesn’t feel full either. He feels empty, but that’s nothing new. He feels blind, but isn’t sure if his eyes are shut. He feels... nothing.

He wants to cry. He wants to scream. To throw up, to laugh, to grin, to frown. But he can’t. His face has been frozen for however long he’s been here. His eyes don’t see, his lips don’t move, and the only things he can hear are through a fog twisting around his brain.

“...alright...”

“...where are...”

“...don’t know if...”

He knows they’re real words but can’t make sense of them. If they’re loud or soft, if they’re English. If they’re said angrily, or sadly, or happily, or if they’re even said at all. He doesn’t know if they’re part of his imagination, though he knows the voices from somewhere, from the life before this. The shadows and the mists whispering to him through the dark.

He doesn’t feel itchy, for the first time in long months. There’s a blanket of numbness, soothing his torn flesh and easing the monstrous screams in his head. They’re gone now, replaced by whispers and a quietly muttering buzz in the base of his skull, the vibrations of a long gone memory, his mind gone into underload.

“...love you...”

“...where’s the...”

“...alone...”

“...so sorry...”

There’s been liquid waves crashing all over him. It comes and goes, in varying degrees, like the trickle, the ebb and flow of a sea of hot blood. Sometimes it’s hot, and burns into his flesh. Sometimes it’s not so hot, and makes him want to shudder and crawl away. So he does, without moving. Retreats further into the numbness in his mind, and hides away from it. He’s felt the warmth before. Somewhere. A long time ago. Like a daydream in a nightmare.

No smells. Except for a sweetly acidic aroma; like burnt sugar, but not. Spicy, like sex. White. If a scent can be white. It is though, like the light at the end of the tunnel, which he’s never had the privilege of seeing. The tunnel is dark, and the smell isn’t of salvation. It’s of rotting, and death, and he can taste it on his tongue, distending his throat.

Whispers, coming hot and not-so-hot. Touches on far away nerves. Tears caught in invisible hairs. They don’t belong to him. They belong to the monster. The scarred one that scares him to death and drowns him in its overwhelming certainty. Hissing like a snake, flickering its serpentine tongue. Whispers like hisses, the attempted comfort by someone who is unkind and unfamiliar, and comforting a snotty child they don’t know what to do with. They try to be sympathetic, but it’s cold and impersonal, and inflames his melancholy. The monster snickers, and then disappears in the roaring of dark red waves of blood, thundering in his ears.

“...useless...”

“...I hate you, hate you...”

“...that to me...”

“...stop it... please...”

“...scaring me...”

He wants to sleep, but thinks he might be already. He’s tired, so tired. Should you feel that way if you’re asleep? Should you be so in love, even if you know you will never have the chance? Should you feel so helpless and alone when you’re surrounded by people everyday? Should you feel so much? Thank god he’s stopped doing that.

“...tried... but you feel too much... you feel... need to stop feeling...”

“We’ve done it... haven’t we boy? We’ve... done it...”

“Can you hear me screaming? Good.”

He can hear someone crying. He doesn’t know if it’s him.

 

*

 

Fluttering, his eyes open. They hurt a little, a raw feeling of irritating dryness like when you’ve been trying not to blink, like in those staring contests he had with Barry when he was little.

The light is piercing after so many hours without. It hurts, and he shuts his eyes again, putting on a pair of sunglasses that are on the table. He sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and kicking something. Flip-flops. They’re not his. They’re Nicky’s. They weren’t here when he fell asleep. Or they might have been. He can’t remember when he fell asleep, but he thinks it was a long time ago

Glancing at himself in the mirror, he shakes his head at the confused stare frowning back at him, and the sunglasses perched on his nose. He takes them off, eyes more adjusted now, and through the foggy glue of sleep, his first thought is that he should take the shoes back to Nicky. He can’t find his clothes, but knows he should put them on. He’ll need something loose. Maybe something grey.

After a few minutes silent hunting, he comes up with a black t-shirt, a navy brand-less jacket (which he zips all the way to the throat) and a pair of baggy brown cargoes, their knees almost worn through. He has no cuts on his knees, save his football grazes, so that doesn’t matter. The others know about those. He barely felt them.

He picks up the shoes and staggers out into the hall, down to Nicky’s door. There’s a soft murmuring inside, so maybe the others are there. There’s a laugh, so maybe they’re up for a chat. Slowly he pushes the door open.

Skin. There’s miles of it. Golden and pale together, moving frantically like a child’s rocking horse. Up and down, soft groans mingling, and louder whimpers splitting the air.

Kian cries out. Loudly.

His hand’s over his mouth before he can think, holding back the swell of vomit.

“Nix...!”

“Oh god.” Mark whispers behind his hand, staggering backwards, feeling something fundamental inside him splinter and crack, the full force of the impact not quite reached it yet. It gets there moments later though, when two interrupted faces turn on him, accusing and guarded all at the same time. He feels it implode then, when Nicky comes relentlessly, apparently too close to the edge to stop now. Kian’s legs are wrapped around his waist.

“Oh god...” Kian mumbles, the fact that he’s still hard not going unnoticed by anyone. Mark feels a whine slice his throat. He’s not sure what he’s seeing. Oh, that’s a lie. He’s completely sure. He doesn’t want to be.

“Mark... I...”

Nicky’s stare is full of remorse. Mark steps back, unable to deal with everyone’s pain right now. He’s feeling his own too badly, wrapped around his shattered heart, bleeding thick black globs of gelatinous bile. He steps back again, Nicky’s shoes dropping from his numb fingers, and then runs, feet taking him as fast as they can back towards his room.

“Oh god.” He murmurs, slamming the door and feeling the bile reach his throat and come out as he vomits hard onto the floor, his vision paling and swimming as he heaves hard. Once, twice, and the blood from his shattered insides is still coming out. Nothing else. He can’t remember the last thing he ate, but it’s not in there. He heaves again, trying to purge the horrible vision from his mind, and comes up only with milky stomach acid. Again, and he collapses to his knees, vomit gliding around and along his fingers, squelching in the carpet. He throws up again, the smell infusing his nose.

“Oh god.” He has to mutter again, for the first time trying to remember what’s gotten him here, in this moment. The remembered scent of sex, rife in the air, fills his brain. All that skin, all that _flesh_ , rising and falling like one breath, all together. Kian’s and Nicky’s breaths intermingling. Laughter, what Kian will never ever spare for him. Nicky coming. The look in Kian’s eyes. Accusing.

He rocks back, sticky, puke-stained hands running through greasy hair. It feels like it hasn’t been washed in days, but he doesn’t notice, the thick funk of acid and bile making him sway. That, and the shock. The absolute horror. Oh, the fucking humanity.

“Mark?!”

“Go away!” He yells, the husky voice taking him back to minutes ago. The soft groan when Nicky came all over Kian, sticky cum catching in the dark brown hair surrounding that hard cock. So hard for fucking Nicky. Kian, fucking Nicky. Hard.

“Mark! Open the...” A slight jolt of surprise in Nicky’s voice when the door sways open, Mark obviously not having closed it properly in his current state. Mark doesn’t see Nicky look around, or gag at the thick, putrous aroma of vomit. It comes in a haze, when Mark’s slimy hands cover his own ears, trying to block out the violent screeching in his head.

“Mark... shit, you’re... are you okay?” Nicky’s whimpering, it rises above the wail, and Mark lets out a soft sob. “Mark... I... I’m so sorry. I...” There’s silence for a moment, and then Nicky grips his arm, feeling it carefully, as if to make sure he’s real. “I’m sorry I didn’t... please...”

Why? Mark’s mind screams it. Fucking why? Why is fucking Nicky here apologising to him? How could he do that to him? Steal Kian like that, make him belong even less to Mark? He’s not fucking Nicky’s... he...

“I’m so sorry.” Nicky sobs, tears landing on Mark’s shivering knees. “I... you don’t know what it’s like to be in love with someone so much that... I didn’t think it would ever happen... I had to accept it and Kian he... he... he was there. You didn’t want me... I didn’t know what to do... I love you and I thought...” Nicky sniffs, dragging back snot and tears with an enormous gulp. “I’m sorry, I thought you didn’t feel that way. I would never have... if I’d known...”

He doesn’t. He so fucking doesn’t know. The screaming builds up over Nicky’s voice, crashing against the inside of Mark’s head in glassy waves, and he can feel tiny jagged pieces of himself falling away, like sand from a rock in the wind. Miniscule fragments dripping away slowly, blowing away in larger and larger chunks as the roaring gale becomes more brutal and more fierce. Whistling through his ears, thundering in his head.

“Mark I... talk to me... please... Please talk to me... I.” Mark’s eyes slit open to see the monster crawling towards him, the pain rearing its ugly head and sneering at him, ripping through his body like a machete. The monster jerks, grins, and reaches out a clawed hand, beckoning.

“I’ll do anything... we... we can make it work... I love you...”

“I love you Mark...” Slimy lips pull back in a sneer, the black, thick tongue splattering hot juices on Mark’s skin. “I love you.” It cackles, then its eyes narrow, its face suddenly inches from his, scorching breath on his mouth. “I. Hate. You.”

“Please... please no...” He moans, wanting to scream. His vocal cords don’t seem to want to work anymore, an effect brought on by horror, possibly. But it’s more likely surrender. He’s just not strong enough anymore. He can’t do this, live like this, with a weight on his shoulders worse than the world, and no-one to help him share the burden. He can’t stop feeling.

“I... Mark... I...” Nicky sobs. “Please, you can ask Kian, he... it didn’t mean anything to either of us.”

It means something to Mark. If he’d been in Nicky’s place it would have meant the world. But to Nicky it meant nothing... and Nicky was the one who got to have it. Mark hates him.

“I can... I’ll do anything...”

Go away. Go away. _Go away._ GO AWAY. _GO AWAY!_

“Mark I... shit you’re bleeding...”

Mark can feel it, running from his knees, where he’s scratched them open, the football grazes something much more serious now. He keeps scratching, trying to block Nicky out, get rid of him. Rocking slowly, then faster, trying to dislodge the hands that have suddenly closed around his neck.

“Shit... stop it... don’t...” Nicky, trying to drag Mark’s hands away, but Mark shrugs them off, digging in harder, nails boring into his skin, gouging. It hurts like hell, the crackling of agony drowning out Nicky’s voice, the sound of a forest fire, ripping through everything and razing it to the ground. Everything disappearing, save the monster crawling around his body, stalking him.

“Mark stop it! Kian! Help!”

Nicky grabs at his hands again, and Mark lashes out, the only thing he can do. Can’t Nicky see that he _needs_ this? He fucking needs this! Nicky’s taken everything else, but not this. This is his, goddammit. Fucking his. Nicky can’t have it.

Nicky reels back, the slap leaving a bloody smear on his face, Mark’s blood staining his cheek. A handprint. Nicky gasps, staggering away. Mark smiles, beginning to rub at the cuts on his shoulders and feeling blood begin to soak through his shirt and onto his hands in a matter of seconds.

Nicky runs, out the door, leaving it open behind him, calling for Kian, Shane, Bryan, Jake, everyone to please come help. Come help me. Not come help Mark. Mark can’t be helped.

Jumping up, Mark shuts the door, slamming it with more force than he thinks he should have left in him. He’s still gouging at his shoulder as he crawls one-handed to his suitcase, pulling out his special box. The lid is opened when he smashes it against the floor, knives, scalpels, bandages, everything going flying in every direction. He grabs the closest one, and slashes at his forearm.

Hot blood everywhere, and he screams against the onslaught, wailing into the anonymity of the hotel room, blood pooling and staining the carpet, the monster giggling somewhere to his right. Or left. Or behind him or in front of him. Or hands around his throat, choking him. He can feel it. He doesn’t want to. There’s hammering at the door, and Mark looks up, hearing voices and crying. His secret's out, there’s only one thing left to do, and that’s savour his last time. Because they’ll lock him up after this, they will. There’s nothing else to do with him, because he’s quite obviously crazy. He slashes at his palm, opening the first wound, from so long ago, sucking at it immediately, reliving the moment. The hot copper tang, the guilty pleasure. Kian’s voice, murmuring in his ears and making him _want_. Nicky, crying out in ecstasy.

He screams, the agony unbearable, and drives the knife through his hand, feeling it burst into the carpet beneath and pin him there, to this horrible room, so far from home. Home, nothing quite like it, not that he’s seen it recently. But he’s seen other things. Oh god, has he ever.

Black spots dance before his eyes, fluttering in his vision at first and then spreading. He blinks, ripping the knife back out and howling as it drags along nerves and bone and tissue. But he’s still thinking, of home, of Nicky, of fucking _Kian_. The pain is blinding but it’s not everything, and it should be.

Slashing, slicing at his own skin, he screams again and again, purging himself, vomiting blood and fluid, becoming bathed in his own blood, like the devil that’s circling, licking at his wounds, and then at his wrists, the only place he hasn’t cut. He stares, his hands rubbing blood into his skin, and the lifts the knife to the right wrist, seeing a streak of enticing blue, corded along a tendon.

The spots are still dancing, blinding him, and suddenly there’s a glowing neon sign, showing the way to the one thing he wants right now, the one thing he needs. He’s dizzy, and there’s not much time left, he can hear them trying to break down the door, the wood already leaping on its hinges. He puts the blade there and, smiling, presses down.

Blood spurts from here, he didn’t know it. He’s never cut so deep before, not at any arteries. Only ever broken small capillaries, but he’s held blades to his throat, to his thigh, to all the major blood vessels, and felt the power there. The certainty, a one-way street to... everything. The blood spurts, and he lays back, feeling the pulse pound in his head, then lessen. The blood once again roaring in his ears, blooming on the beige hotel carpet. Kian’s face, swimming in front of his eyes moments after the door breaks down, a love bite on his throat, red and full of hurtful memories. The spots flutter before his eyes, blending quickly together as people’s hands grab at him, at his wounds, trying to stop the flow. He tries to shake them off, but is too weak, drowsy, his whole body trembling cruelly with the encroaching cold. The monster crawls back into the mirror and begins to nod off, satisfied, and Mark looks up, not able to see the end of any tunnel. Just Kian’s face.

“I love you.” He murmurs. “Kian.”

He’s glad the spots are blending, fading to black before the words are all the way out of his mouth. It means he doesn’t have to see the look of disgust he’s sure will appear on Kian’s tear-stained face.


End file.
